The Birth of Sweet Henry
Born 29 September 2013, 5:19 p.m.
6 pounds, 7.4 ounces; 19 ½ inches
as written to Rashna, my dear friend who asked to know more about my labor, in the month before giving birth to her daughter, Madeleine
As I write, sweet Henry gurgles beside me on the bed; I’ve just looked down again at him, and he’s outstretched his arm towards me, his increasingly-blue eyes unblinkingly gazing at my face, and I look open-mouthed and wide-eyed (the expression I’d reserved for moments of awe that has become commonplace in these past ten weeks), his mouth eases into a smile, so gently and definitively that I shiver and smile back in disbelief, tears falling slowly down my face, as if this boy knows that I’m setting out to write the story of his birth, so powerfully meeting my gaze and piercing through layers of extraneous thought and time to the connection we share and have built in these past weeks and months. To write this now, I have had to turn away from him and toward my screen, and he begins to whimper: this exchange, a concentrated microcosm of what these weeks have been, my loving and astonished engagement with him; my reluctance to turn from him, if even in the act of writing words or sharing images of him; his pleasure in attention and disappointment in its loss. How I’ve struggled to (want to) focus on anything else. How lucky that I’ve mostly not had to.
I’m now typing choppily with my right hand, having scooped up a crying Henry to sit on my lap. It’s impossible, as I’ve known my whole life but more acutely learned in these weeks, to have experiences while reflecting upon them, to look simultaneously at my sweet son and this screen. He sits in my left arm as I type, cooing and watching my face; I pause typing to smile and mirror his expression. Sometimes I’m convinced that he knows when I’m seeing him through tears of amazement, as his own eyes seem to shine and widen. When he sits on my lap, his crying turns into playful noise and conversation-like (all taking-turns, pausing, vocalizing) utterance. Here I experience the challenge that has defined these ten weeks, so focused on detailing and attending to the intricacies of my present experience that I hardly let myself recall, in ways other than sheer emotional compounding, time before Henry. I sometimes look at pictures of his early days to remind myself of his changes, all the while that I know so fiercely of how he’s grown; I know with powerful physical memory how he differently feels in my arms and fits on my lap, and I’ve never in my life so intensely loved a living thing who changes at such accelerated pace. Henry changes my experience of time, as all love does.
On Saturday, 21 September, we dined at Trent and Sarah Beth’s house; they’d been so generous to cook for us, and we reminisced about our friendship and projected its changes in the coming years. They talked about how the evening well could be the last time just the four of us visited together, pre-baby. I used the restroom at their house, and thought “my mucus plug!”—as in, I’d begun to lose it (or lost it, depending). Throughout the next day, I experienced considerable and noteworthy loss of mucus, which I found to be entirely fascinating and exciting: for so long, nothing really changes in those important parts, though I experienced swelling most every other place. And I felt hopeful and nervous to realize that my body was showing signs of moving toward labor. Having been a good scholar of the internet, however, I knew full well that losing cervical mucus could happen weeks before actual labor—and loss of the mucus plug earlier in pregnancy could even result in growing a new one—and so I didn’t feel this is it, by any means; rather, I felt, we’re getting closer. On Monday morning, the clumpier cervical mucus (which utterly fascinated me, as if, when sick with a cold, you feel accomplished to have drained your sinuses with a good hearty release of snot—pardon this crudeness, but there’s a similar sense of accomplishment, as in “look at all that mucus! Whoah, that’s a good one!”) had changed into a more watery discharge, which of course—in my narrative of how labor begins—led me to start wondering about my bag of waters and its possible rupturing. I’d learned that, if the bag ruptures high, amniotic fluid would trickle instead of gush; and I’d definitely felt a constant trickle for a number of hours, so I called my obstetrician, who suggested that I not wait until my scheduled appointment (for Tuesday morning) but instead head to the hospital. I’d not been feeling any unusual contractions beyond the Braxton-Hicks I’d come to experience with near constancy; and so I felt worried as to the fact that events could be happening out of order: I felt nervous about going in too early, being induced before I or the baby was ready, and so forth. Though just the last week, at the doctor’s, I’d felt exuberant and adrenaline-fuelled and buoyantly announcing “I’m ready to have this baby!”, I suddenly felt terrifically not ready and scared. I called Mark at work; we packed our bags, and went to the hospital. I wrote to myself: “We are either coming home in a couple hours. Or we're coming home in a few days with a baby. I hope one of these options. It's bewildering to entertain these possibilities at once.” At the hospital, we spent a few hours in triage, where they monitored the baby, monitored my contractions, and tested the fluid (turned out to be just thinner cervical mucus) with a pH strip. To be blunt, that experience was rather unpleasant; both Mark and I felt nervous, and we dealt with our anxiety in contradictory ways; Mark felt as if he needed to be both my supportive husband and my medical advocate, and the latter disrupted his being the former (e.g. when he would question what was happening, to me, after a nurse had left…and I’d worry that he’d be confrontational—though he wasn’t—with medical staff, while I, meanwhile, was busy trying to please them, peeing in whatever cup they’d offer and working to be the most amiable patient). I should provide more context: we’d taken a Bradley class in addition to the Baptist Hospital class; and, in recent days, we’d both read Ina May Gaskin’s Guide to Childbirth; we’d watched The Business of Being Born and Orgasmic Birth (!). We’d written a birth plan (which I’m happy to share) and cried together through innumerable childbirth videos, that moment when the final push results in a baby that perfectly emerges and is placed on mother’s naked bosom. And so our time in the triage unit, when not only our baby’s heartbeat but also neighboring soon-to-be-mothers’ babies’ heartbeats were pounding rapidly and loudly through the curtained room, seemed tension-laden and nerve-wracking. Luckily, we went home with a clean bill of health after this simple false alarm.
On Wednesday, 25 September, I wrote this to BirthWorks: “Greetings! At 38 weeks, I'm writing you far too late in my pregnancy, I realize, for ordinary and ideal doula support; but my husband and I have increasingly been reading and learning more about natural childbirth and talking with friends--and we realize that, if possible at all, we'd love to have the additional support of a doula to help us through the birth process. We're very pleased with our OBGYN (Dr. Hutchinson at Baptist), but we realize that we'd like to labor at home for as long as possible--and we also can't be guaranteed that Hutchinson will be on call when we go into labor. Given our friends' amazing stories about their experience with doulas (and the fact that Ina May Gaskin increasingly is our hero), we'd love to explore possibilities with Birth Works. If it's too late in our pregnancy to have this conversation, we wholly respect your policies and inclinations; but if you might be open to talking with us, we'd like to know more about what could be possible at this stage. Thanks for letting us know! We look forward to hearing from you.”
On Thursday, 26 September, I ordered Jhumpa Lahiri’s The Lowland to read while in labor (it didn’t arrive in time). On that day, I also wrote this to you:
“On Monday, we had a false alarm (all these fluids, er, seem indistinguishable to me...and I didn't want to miss a water break--sorry to offer too much information, but this could be useful to you down the road, perhaps, too?) that involved our first visit (of hopefully only two) to Labor & Delivery, which has helpfully inspired us to actually seek out the support of a doula (who we're visiting today--can't tell you how thrilled I am about this) even at this super-late stage of the pregnancy. I'm straddling so many feelings right now (impatience [let's have this baby!], and anxiety [but I haven't finished all my emails/recommendation letters/thank you notes!], and fear [please be healthy, little boy, and breathing and full of life!] and joy [a baby!, our baby!]), and the doula (who comes highly recommended by our doctor and the community) will hopefully help to assuage some of the anxieties that our inexperience causes us to have. Here's hoping.”
On Friday, 27 September, I wrote this to you:
“Our meeting with the doula couldn't have gone better, in all honesty; she described what she could offer to us in labor and hospital, and her phrasing and tone and demeanor brought tears to my eyes on a couple of occasions (as if she'd been overhearing exactly Mark's and my anxieties and addressed them perfectly). We'd talked about a doula earlier in the process, but I felt reluctant to commit (I didn't want to feel any guilt or pressure to birth a particular way...and I felt uneasy about another person sharing in our experience...and I also felt so thrilled with our doctor that I didn't feel any need to pursue other options); our false alarm, though, and the realization that--even though our doctor will try to do everything to share this birth with us (he said he'd be more sad than we would be, if he misses it, which I found quite sweet and meaningful), if he's otherwise occupied or underslept, etc. then we would be with whichever doctor of his practice (all of whom he recommends so highly) would be on call. Realizing on Monday just how *nervous* both M and I became at the hospital--and how tensely we handled our nervousness :)--we decided that maybe having a professional in our corner (and not just crossing our fingers that we have nurses/doctor we like) would be a good move. It allows M to be supportive of me and with me as opposed to his feeling the pressure to advocate for me as we navigate an altogether new space with which neither of us have experience. I think I remember your saying that your doctor will definitely be there for your birth? What peace of mind that must offer you! I'm so happy to hear that your sweet daughter continues to move energetically and spiritedly inside you, in ways that remind you of all the life and goodness you're soon to bring into the world. How exciting! This boy's movements have slowed down slightly as his available space comes to be reduced; the other night, M and I discussed cutting the cord (which he'll do), and I felt all weepy to realize that--in the most wonderful of ways and reasons!--I'll soon lose this tie with our boy...and M gave me an awesome pep talk about how great it will be to really hold and see him! Of course it will be, but there was this fleeting sense of, gulp, losing this particular in-utero intimacy that flashed sadly before my eyes. But, make no mistake, I'm ready for this and eager about the whole process.”
On the morning of Saturday, 28 September, I wrote the following to my sister-in-law Sharon (who, by then, was one day past her own due date): “Our false alarm on Monday was unnerving, and we've since met with a doula who we super-like, to help us through the laboring at home and also to support us in the hospital since we don't know whether my doctor will be on call whenever it's time; he's been incredibly awesome, and we really love working with him as an ob--he even said that he'll do everything he can to be at the birth, and that he'd feel sadder than we would feel, if he misses it [I was incredibly touched by this], but if, say, he's been up all night and/or has other commitments, that he wouldn't be at his best, either...which makes sense...so we'll just see how things go. In our first meeting with the doula, she said all the right things (as if she'd been reading our minds and/or eavesdropping on our conversations), and that provides some real peace of mind…I've definitely lost my mucus plug and have been dilated at 1 cm for three weeks now (!), but my ob explained that this can happen for awhile...and that dilation/effacement can happen quickly when it's time. And so we wait! I've had lower back pain for a week or so (I can visualize all those pelvic bones softening, which is like magic!) and lots of BH during the night (but nothing regular enough to count), but these past couple of days I've been way crampier than usual...it's wild to think that I could have three more weeks of this or a couple days! But the false alarm both helped me to feel closer to and farther away from giving birth…In the meantime, we're trying to finish thank-you cards (I'm so impressed at your swiftness!) and keep the house clean and do our fair share of television-viewing (we're catching up on season five of Mad Men--holy cow!), and we're looking forward to what's new in our worlds as much as we're quietly cherishing what's right now quiet (yes!, I know just what you mean, about how our lives will change forever so shortly! it's bewildering to anticipate this shift from a household of Mark-and-I, who can read at breakfast while sipping tea [so peaceful :)], to a household of newborn busyness. In any case, I ought close here and try to do more things while I can.”
Little did I realize that birth was so near, all the while that, in retrospect, it’s easy to see my crampiness as a clear indication.
By the time we met with our doula Whitney Waggoner on Saturday afternoon at 1 p.m., I’d been having contractions every five minutes for several hours; but still I felt as if it wasn’t real or time: the pain was palpable, but I felt so shy or reluctant to make presumptions as to my readiness, after Monday’s false alarm. During our meeting, I sat on a yoga ball (the most comfortable seat, I’d found, in those latter weeks of pregnancy), and alternated between a completely normal painless experience of conversation punctuated by staggering wincing contractions, every now and then. Whitney looked at me, said “I’m looking at you, and you seem to be in labor,” and passed over most of the paperwork and information of the “getting to know your doula” phase right into the “we’re in labor” urgent conversation. She examined me, and I was then a little more dilated, but nothing of consequence (I found it so valuable to be checked in advance of the hospital; had we been going by time and contraction, alone, I’d technically have been supposed to be at the hospital early Saturday afternoon—but Whitney’s ability to check my cervix allowed me to stay at home and more relaxed for a longer period of time, which I really needed and appreciated). She advised us to go home, try to sleep, eat a substantial dinner, take a bath in epsom salts, and keep her posted.
We stopped at the local Walgreen’s on our way home; Mark went in to pickup the bath salts (lavender!), which I’d never actually have time enough to use. Though I was quite hungry, nothing sounded particularly appealing, especially as I was anticipating its regurgitation if/as my labor intensified. We settled on Panera Bread takeout: pesto pasta and tomato soup, for me! And we settled down on the couch (around 6 p.m.) to watch an episode of Mad Men (season 5, episode 11), which turned out to feel tumultuous and overwhelming: Sally Draper got her first period; Lane Pryce committed suicide, and all the world felt intense and hard. During the episode, we paused the show during contractions (they’d intensified to the point that I couldn’t do anything else whilst having them); I ate my dinner ravenously; and I cried so often. All the talk about becoming a woman, about growing up, about protecting children—or oneself—from sadness (Lane’s suicide, an extreme case of downward spiraling into despair); the adults’ attempts to parent the children alongside the children’s attempts (or reluctance) to grow up felt so overwhelming as I sat there and bounced on my yoga ball with labor pains. As the show came to a close, Don and Glenn in the front seat of his car, Glenn behind the wheel, I wept inconsolably: “It’s all so beautiful,” I remember wailing to Mark. We also watched a couple of episodes of the Netflix series Derek, which felt just fine and innocuous and unremarkable compared to Mad Men’s grandiose drama. As the evening progressed, so did my labor; I finally called my parents to tell them that I probably was in real labor (I didn’t want to call too soon, lest they catch a flight only to sit with Mark and I in triage for a false alarm, which sounded like a nightmare). I snapped at my mother, when she asked whether I shouldn’t go to the hospital immediately to be monitored (not very cool of me, but I, too, was quite scared; and so I think that I lashed out and projected my fears onto her, as I tried to assure her—and me, by extension—that I wanted to wait at home, to try to get some sleep, until things seemed to escalate). I felt so excited and nervous to talk with my parents, so wanting to give them the good news of a their grandchild and feeling bewildered at the work I’d have to do, in order to make it so. Later in the evening, maybe around 10, we called Whitney, who had said earlier that we should call her “as things change”; she’d purposely left this phrase vague, such that we could feel free to call if emotional and/or physical changes happened. She checked me again for dilation, and my cervix had changed to 3 cm. Things were happening! We talked about the best time to go to the hospital, and she encouraged me to go whenever I’d feel comfortable. We lay down to sleep for awhile (Whitney slept on our couch, so sweet of her to stay with us); I hardly could achieve a steady sleep, but I managed to rest between contractions. I felt overwhelmed by “is this happening? It’s happening. Is this happening? It’s happening” fear and doubt and hope. Finally, around 3 a.m.-ish, I decided that I wanted to go to the hospital; I didn’t want to experience the much-feared “transition” in the car, and I felt in want of a fetal monitor so as to make sure that baby was healthy and weathering the contractions safely.
Because we’d already had a false alarm (and gone through triage) and because Whitney could vouch for my dilation (she had a great working relationship with the hospital), she called ahead and reserved for us what she called “the best room,” which had a Jacuzzi tub for birthing as well. I had the option of rolling into L&D in a wheelchair, but I walked the whole way from the car, so hellbent was I on being strong and proving something (?!) to myself. We had to stop several times, though, along the way; I remember leaning against the glass wall of the skyway from the parking lot to the hospital, just moaning in pain; same for the hallway just inside the hospital doors. As intense and painful as it was, I remember feeling so earthy and clear and in touch with my body, waddling and laboring my way into the hospital. Once in my labor room, I spent early time on the yoga ball, as they pricked me for an IV (hospital policy said that every patient needed to have the entry point inserted, perchance meds would be wanted or necessary later) and took my vitals. Whitney prepared me a hot bath with lovely lavender oil, and the heat felt absolutely heavenly on my painful abdomen (like a hot water bottle for cramps); getting into the tub felt ridiculous and absurd, as in, you want me to lift my legs and get into there?! But, once in, I didn’t ever want to leave. The water also helped me to feel less heavy, and so my body—beyond simply my abdomen—also relaxed and eased its pressure. I think I must have emerged from the tub after several hours, though time passes in a blur. Mark sat on the floor next to the tub, held my hand, and we both tried to get some sleep. I definitely slept between contractions, as their pain so intensely triggered endorphins that I actually went into hardcore REM sleep (or something like this, as I was dreaming? Perhaps it was more hallucination from pain than actual sleep, but I nonetheless felt rested) between contractions, so much so that I felt I’d dozed off for an hour or so, only to ask and be told that I’d been sleeping for only four minutes.
Mark kept praising me, loving me, touching me and telling me how I amazed him; and with each compliment and loving look, I felt my whole body relax. I felt so proud to make him so proud, and the whole experience was one of the times in our relationship when my love for him has felt most acute, if this makes sense. It’s imprecise to say that I loved him more or better in those hours, but it’s accurate to say that I’d never needed him as much as I did then, and he supported me so beautifully when it mattered most, for which I’m grateful and teary even to recall.
Getting out of the tub absolutely sucked, there’s no other way to say it. It was like shifting from a weightless environment into a gravitational pull, and with the heaviest bulging painful belly to boot. The next few hours passed in a blur, which felt like forever and nothing at once. I remember that Whitney kept shifting us among various “activities” in the room: I labored on my hands and knees; I labored on the ball while Mark squeezed my hips with contractions (this position in particular felt awesome, especially as he squeezed with the pain and massaged my lower back with almond oil (Whitney literally had a bag of tricks, which she pulled out at the most opportune and exactly-great moments!); I labored on the toilet, which felt awful, but really helped to progress my dilation. I had a hard time using the toilet, though I continually felt that I needed to; Whitney soaked a cloth in mint and waved it gently near my face, said “inhale this scent and think of the urine releasing from your body,” and—no kidding, like magic, I peed. Time and again, Mark and I would look at each other as if to say both we’re doing this!, we’re having a baby!, and holy cow, this woman is magic and awesome, and I’m so glad she’s here with us. Whitney asked whether we had music to play, and I admittedly had thought “I ought to make a playlist!” but had pushed that goal to the bottom of my priorities, as each day something new would arise to which I’d dedicate my attention. Whitney asked whether we liked Paul Simon, and I remember laboring on all fours and thinking how tinny and frail and inconsequential Paul Simon’s music felt by comparison (all that heaving and heaviness, I felt—all the grunting and moaning—just felt more dramatic than his thin little voice)—all the while that, for days after I hummed “Born at the Right Time” and even now, to think of it, I feel teary and shivery. I didn’t realize at the time just how imbedded sensations and sounds would be in my memory of laboring and birth, nor could I have anticipated just how blurred my experience of time would feel—minutes felt both like seconds and days, as I shifted into a completely new measure based on the contraction/not-contraction dichotomy.
Somewhere in the afternoon of Sunday, 29 September, things started stalling: I’d been dilated at 8 cm for several hours (according to a text message Mark sent, at both 11:12 a.m. and still at 3 p.m., I was at 8 cm), and Dr. Wyatt (unfortunately not my OB) and nurses started talking with us about how we might accelerate things. I was feeling completely exhausted, with no stamina or strength to talk about much of anything, and I remember fearing that this baby would be in me forever, so weak and exhausted I felt at even the prospect of pushing anything out of anywhere. I’d never in my life slept or eaten less over such a long timespan, and for that lack of sleep and food to coincide with such intense physical work really made me feel rather despairing. I’d known to expect this feeling—all of our classes, books, etc. prepared us for this sense of impossibility at this stage of labor—but reading and knowing about it wasn’t nearly (of course) the same as experiencing it. I didn’t say it out loud, only to Mark after the fact in retrospect, but I secretly wanted a c-section immediately then and there, just so that I could be finished. The second time that they checked me at 8 cm, I felt like I wasn’t going anywhere, and the whole process just seemed endless. Mark slipped me some excellent snacks (e.g. some pureed fruit that they sell in the babyfood aisle) and water, which helped to rally my energies. The pain all felt bearable—surely painful!, and several nurses would pop into the room and affectionately report that they could hear my moans down the hallway (I was beyond feeling self-conscious)—but bearable nonetheless; it was, for me, far more the exhaustion than the pain that nearly broke me.
In the spirit of breaking (or almost breaking), my bag of waters had yet to rupture—after all my worrying the week before! We discussed with Whitney and the doctor/nurses that perhaps their breaking my water could accelerate labor without dramatic intervention; we agreed. Baby Henry (who wasn’t “Henry” just yet, though I had a feeling ) had been bouncing his head against the bag for hours, with each contraction, but the membrane was too thick to be penetrated just yet. The doctor broke my water, and—as one might imagine—whoosh, things started happening again! I felt a huge sense of relief and excitement, and I surprised myself at how quickly my endorphins could again kick in with a we’re doing this kind of persistence and strength. I think that I started pushing too soon, only because I wanted to have this baby so desperately (a combination, I think, of both wanting to see him—wanting to believe that he’s real, to see that he’s okay, to understand this as really happening—and of wanting this long and exhausting process to reach its climax, to work toward the goal, to feel like my work hadn’t been for naught). In any case, I pushed for what seemed like forever, though I’m not sure just how long. According to messages that I’m piecing together, maybe somewhere between 1-2 hours. Those last two hours, I felt like I was sprinting a marathon, putting my entire energies into pushing and working on what was, more naturally, a longer process. I grew impatient, which I regret, but it was so hard to temper my enthusiasm! The pain felt surprisingly manageable in its predictability, even as it escalated; I was surprised at how measuredly the pain felt like a wave (I’d heard and read descriptions of this sensation, but was still taken aback by how clearly this was its shape): there’d be one sharp intense cramp, followed by its echo of sorts—its bolder, sharper echo, and then the wave would fall as the pain diminished. This sounds crazy, but I grew to appreciate the pattern and to attach some kind of comfort in its predictability. With Mark and Whitney at my side, coaching me and encouraging me and helping me as they could, I pushed for awhile on all fours, but that position came to be (I only learned in retrospect) less productive because Henry’s heartrate wasn’t recovering as well post-contraction as it ought (I’m so glad I didn’t know this).
Eventually the doctor came in, the lights came up, and I realized that it’s happening. I remember, earlier in the day, when first I’d met the doctor, he asked “so, are you ready to have a baby today?” and I weepily said “really, do you think it’s going to happen?” and the whole room laughed as he responded, “er, yes, definitely.” When he appeared again, all lights up and show begun, I felt so serious and intense and ready to do it. I sort of sat at the edge of the bed, which split apart so as to allow me leg support while my legs were open; and, with each contraction, it was sort of like a super-stomach-crunch—with Mark lifting my torso and head so that I could lean into the pushing. Whitney had soaked towels with hot water, which she placed on my perineum to ease the muscular tissue into stretching, and she encouraged me to push toward the heat (a brilliant move, as it helped me to focus my efforts toward a sensation). God knows I had absolutely no strength or stamina at this point, and Mark and Whitney really helped to keep me afloat towards the end. The nurses, Whitney, the doctor, and Mark all watched as the baby crowned (crowned! Crowned!, holy cow!), and then he proceeded to crown for many many more contractions; with each push, it felt like the grandest suspense film, everyone watching the little tip of his head—and me watching their expressions, as they open-mouthed hoped that they’d see more of his head/face. I reached down to touch the little top of his head, and I wept in amazement, as much as one could weep amidst all that chaos and pain and moaning and intensity. Feeling his little head further inspired me to push, all teeth gritted. I remember screaming during one contraction “baby, get out!” as if he could hear me and we had a pact together, all working to make him be born. The vocalizing really helped me, or at least I think that it did; the moans and yells, Mark says, became lower in scale as the day progressed—deeper in pitch as we came closer to birth. Somehow having a sound to make and associate with particular feelings (it’s strange, I associate the contraction itself with a kind of arpeggio musical structure, as if it has notes that rise and fall) helped me to appreciate the predictability. As we moved toward the end, things got more intense and precarious: they gave me an oxygen mask to help the baby’s heart rate, and also gave me an IV solution of sugar-water for hydration. I remember tossing off the mask, saying that I felt like I was suffocating, but Mark explained that the baby needed it; he gently lay the mask near my mouth, such that I could get oxygenated without feeling smothered. I felt panicky and desperate and excited, all at once.
The long and short of it is this: I kept pushing; Mark kept lifting me; the doctor and nurses and Whitney kept cheering me.
And then, good heavens, I can’t even write this sentence without tearing up: suddenly I felt this gush, this slippery gurgling ecstatic burst of baby that finally emerged, and it was Henry. Such a blur of feeling and bodies and sounds and sensations at that point. Finally. Our baby, alive, came out of me, and I felt absolutely ecstatic.
They placed him on my chest. I looked at his face—his sweet face!, and saw his open eyes, and they looked at me, and I remember thinking “he’s alive!” and then the nurse rushed him over to the baby warmer, telling me that he needed help. Mark went to that side of the room, while the doctor stitched me for a tear (I needed two stitches; I’m not sure quite when I tore, but I was amazed that—given all that pushing and retracting—I only needed two). I remember shouting questions about the baby: “is he okay? Breathing? Two arms? Two legs? Fingers? Toes?” and every answer was affirmative and reassuring, all the while that he needed some vigorous toweling before he cried. Mark explained that, as Henry lay on my chest the first time, he was growing purple (I didn’t notice any of this, only his eyes and face and that we were looking at each other), and the medical staff swifted him away to rough him up a bit and get his breathing going. They soon brought him back to me, and he lay on my chest and latched onto my nipple; all this was happening as the doctor stitched me, and I remember wincing in pain and crying with joy, with Mark and Henry, all at once. I remember thanking Whitney repeatedly and also our labor and delivery nurses (they all were the very best, doing things that nobody should have to do for another human) and feeling so moved and humbled and amazed that everything happened so beautifully. I also felt hungry and tired and dizzy with exhaustion, so much so that I could hardly walk to the bathroom or move my legs. But we had our baby, and we named him Henry, and I’d gladly repeat those hours of labor and months of pregnancy for this little perfect joyful son.
That first evening, Henry met all four of his grandparents; and I awoke the next morning feeling and saying that I’d never felt so happy in my whole life. I hadn’t allowed myself to truly process or acknowledge just how fearful of birth I’d felt, and that we had a healthy baby in our arms astonished me more than anything I’d ever experienced. My heart beats faster and my eyes water to write this sentence, as I continually feel such amazement with each new day and hour of Henry’s life. There’s more I could write, as to the time thereafter; but this account quite literally would be endless, given the infinite details that comprise every moment.
6 pounds, 7.4 ounces; 19 ½ inches
as written to Rashna, my dear friend who asked to know more about my labor, in the month before giving birth to her daughter, Madeleine
As I write, sweet Henry gurgles beside me on the bed; I’ve just looked down again at him, and he’s outstretched his arm towards me, his increasingly-blue eyes unblinkingly gazing at my face, and I look open-mouthed and wide-eyed (the expression I’d reserved for moments of awe that has become commonplace in these past ten weeks), his mouth eases into a smile, so gently and definitively that I shiver and smile back in disbelief, tears falling slowly down my face, as if this boy knows that I’m setting out to write the story of his birth, so powerfully meeting my gaze and piercing through layers of extraneous thought and time to the connection we share and have built in these past weeks and months. To write this now, I have had to turn away from him and toward my screen, and he begins to whimper: this exchange, a concentrated microcosm of what these weeks have been, my loving and astonished engagement with him; my reluctance to turn from him, if even in the act of writing words or sharing images of him; his pleasure in attention and disappointment in its loss. How I’ve struggled to (want to) focus on anything else. How lucky that I’ve mostly not had to.
I’m now typing choppily with my right hand, having scooped up a crying Henry to sit on my lap. It’s impossible, as I’ve known my whole life but more acutely learned in these weeks, to have experiences while reflecting upon them, to look simultaneously at my sweet son and this screen. He sits in my left arm as I type, cooing and watching my face; I pause typing to smile and mirror his expression. Sometimes I’m convinced that he knows when I’m seeing him through tears of amazement, as his own eyes seem to shine and widen. When he sits on my lap, his crying turns into playful noise and conversation-like (all taking-turns, pausing, vocalizing) utterance. Here I experience the challenge that has defined these ten weeks, so focused on detailing and attending to the intricacies of my present experience that I hardly let myself recall, in ways other than sheer emotional compounding, time before Henry. I sometimes look at pictures of his early days to remind myself of his changes, all the while that I know so fiercely of how he’s grown; I know with powerful physical memory how he differently feels in my arms and fits on my lap, and I’ve never in my life so intensely loved a living thing who changes at such accelerated pace. Henry changes my experience of time, as all love does.
On Saturday, 21 September, we dined at Trent and Sarah Beth’s house; they’d been so generous to cook for us, and we reminisced about our friendship and projected its changes in the coming years. They talked about how the evening well could be the last time just the four of us visited together, pre-baby. I used the restroom at their house, and thought “my mucus plug!”—as in, I’d begun to lose it (or lost it, depending). Throughout the next day, I experienced considerable and noteworthy loss of mucus, which I found to be entirely fascinating and exciting: for so long, nothing really changes in those important parts, though I experienced swelling most every other place. And I felt hopeful and nervous to realize that my body was showing signs of moving toward labor. Having been a good scholar of the internet, however, I knew full well that losing cervical mucus could happen weeks before actual labor—and loss of the mucus plug earlier in pregnancy could even result in growing a new one—and so I didn’t feel this is it, by any means; rather, I felt, we’re getting closer. On Monday morning, the clumpier cervical mucus (which utterly fascinated me, as if, when sick with a cold, you feel accomplished to have drained your sinuses with a good hearty release of snot—pardon this crudeness, but there’s a similar sense of accomplishment, as in “look at all that mucus! Whoah, that’s a good one!”) had changed into a more watery discharge, which of course—in my narrative of how labor begins—led me to start wondering about my bag of waters and its possible rupturing. I’d learned that, if the bag ruptures high, amniotic fluid would trickle instead of gush; and I’d definitely felt a constant trickle for a number of hours, so I called my obstetrician, who suggested that I not wait until my scheduled appointment (for Tuesday morning) but instead head to the hospital. I’d not been feeling any unusual contractions beyond the Braxton-Hicks I’d come to experience with near constancy; and so I felt worried as to the fact that events could be happening out of order: I felt nervous about going in too early, being induced before I or the baby was ready, and so forth. Though just the last week, at the doctor’s, I’d felt exuberant and adrenaline-fuelled and buoyantly announcing “I’m ready to have this baby!”, I suddenly felt terrifically not ready and scared. I called Mark at work; we packed our bags, and went to the hospital. I wrote to myself: “We are either coming home in a couple hours. Or we're coming home in a few days with a baby. I hope one of these options. It's bewildering to entertain these possibilities at once.” At the hospital, we spent a few hours in triage, where they monitored the baby, monitored my contractions, and tested the fluid (turned out to be just thinner cervical mucus) with a pH strip. To be blunt, that experience was rather unpleasant; both Mark and I felt nervous, and we dealt with our anxiety in contradictory ways; Mark felt as if he needed to be both my supportive husband and my medical advocate, and the latter disrupted his being the former (e.g. when he would question what was happening, to me, after a nurse had left…and I’d worry that he’d be confrontational—though he wasn’t—with medical staff, while I, meanwhile, was busy trying to please them, peeing in whatever cup they’d offer and working to be the most amiable patient). I should provide more context: we’d taken a Bradley class in addition to the Baptist Hospital class; and, in recent days, we’d both read Ina May Gaskin’s Guide to Childbirth; we’d watched The Business of Being Born and Orgasmic Birth (!). We’d written a birth plan (which I’m happy to share) and cried together through innumerable childbirth videos, that moment when the final push results in a baby that perfectly emerges and is placed on mother’s naked bosom. And so our time in the triage unit, when not only our baby’s heartbeat but also neighboring soon-to-be-mothers’ babies’ heartbeats were pounding rapidly and loudly through the curtained room, seemed tension-laden and nerve-wracking. Luckily, we went home with a clean bill of health after this simple false alarm.
On Wednesday, 25 September, I wrote this to BirthWorks: “Greetings! At 38 weeks, I'm writing you far too late in my pregnancy, I realize, for ordinary and ideal doula support; but my husband and I have increasingly been reading and learning more about natural childbirth and talking with friends--and we realize that, if possible at all, we'd love to have the additional support of a doula to help us through the birth process. We're very pleased with our OBGYN (Dr. Hutchinson at Baptist), but we realize that we'd like to labor at home for as long as possible--and we also can't be guaranteed that Hutchinson will be on call when we go into labor. Given our friends' amazing stories about their experience with doulas (and the fact that Ina May Gaskin increasingly is our hero), we'd love to explore possibilities with Birth Works. If it's too late in our pregnancy to have this conversation, we wholly respect your policies and inclinations; but if you might be open to talking with us, we'd like to know more about what could be possible at this stage. Thanks for letting us know! We look forward to hearing from you.”
On Thursday, 26 September, I ordered Jhumpa Lahiri’s The Lowland to read while in labor (it didn’t arrive in time). On that day, I also wrote this to you:
“On Monday, we had a false alarm (all these fluids, er, seem indistinguishable to me...and I didn't want to miss a water break--sorry to offer too much information, but this could be useful to you down the road, perhaps, too?) that involved our first visit (of hopefully only two) to Labor & Delivery, which has helpfully inspired us to actually seek out the support of a doula (who we're visiting today--can't tell you how thrilled I am about this) even at this super-late stage of the pregnancy. I'm straddling so many feelings right now (impatience [let's have this baby!], and anxiety [but I haven't finished all my emails/recommendation letters/thank you notes!], and fear [please be healthy, little boy, and breathing and full of life!] and joy [a baby!, our baby!]), and the doula (who comes highly recommended by our doctor and the community) will hopefully help to assuage some of the anxieties that our inexperience causes us to have. Here's hoping.”
On Friday, 27 September, I wrote this to you:
“Our meeting with the doula couldn't have gone better, in all honesty; she described what she could offer to us in labor and hospital, and her phrasing and tone and demeanor brought tears to my eyes on a couple of occasions (as if she'd been overhearing exactly Mark's and my anxieties and addressed them perfectly). We'd talked about a doula earlier in the process, but I felt reluctant to commit (I didn't want to feel any guilt or pressure to birth a particular way...and I felt uneasy about another person sharing in our experience...and I also felt so thrilled with our doctor that I didn't feel any need to pursue other options); our false alarm, though, and the realization that--even though our doctor will try to do everything to share this birth with us (he said he'd be more sad than we would be, if he misses it, which I found quite sweet and meaningful), if he's otherwise occupied or underslept, etc. then we would be with whichever doctor of his practice (all of whom he recommends so highly) would be on call. Realizing on Monday just how *nervous* both M and I became at the hospital--and how tensely we handled our nervousness :)--we decided that maybe having a professional in our corner (and not just crossing our fingers that we have nurses/doctor we like) would be a good move. It allows M to be supportive of me and with me as opposed to his feeling the pressure to advocate for me as we navigate an altogether new space with which neither of us have experience. I think I remember your saying that your doctor will definitely be there for your birth? What peace of mind that must offer you! I'm so happy to hear that your sweet daughter continues to move energetically and spiritedly inside you, in ways that remind you of all the life and goodness you're soon to bring into the world. How exciting! This boy's movements have slowed down slightly as his available space comes to be reduced; the other night, M and I discussed cutting the cord (which he'll do), and I felt all weepy to realize that--in the most wonderful of ways and reasons!--I'll soon lose this tie with our boy...and M gave me an awesome pep talk about how great it will be to really hold and see him! Of course it will be, but there was this fleeting sense of, gulp, losing this particular in-utero intimacy that flashed sadly before my eyes. But, make no mistake, I'm ready for this and eager about the whole process.”
On the morning of Saturday, 28 September, I wrote the following to my sister-in-law Sharon (who, by then, was one day past her own due date): “Our false alarm on Monday was unnerving, and we've since met with a doula who we super-like, to help us through the laboring at home and also to support us in the hospital since we don't know whether my doctor will be on call whenever it's time; he's been incredibly awesome, and we really love working with him as an ob--he even said that he'll do everything he can to be at the birth, and that he'd feel sadder than we would feel, if he misses it [I was incredibly touched by this], but if, say, he's been up all night and/or has other commitments, that he wouldn't be at his best, either...which makes sense...so we'll just see how things go. In our first meeting with the doula, she said all the right things (as if she'd been reading our minds and/or eavesdropping on our conversations), and that provides some real peace of mind…I've definitely lost my mucus plug and have been dilated at 1 cm for three weeks now (!), but my ob explained that this can happen for awhile...and that dilation/effacement can happen quickly when it's time. And so we wait! I've had lower back pain for a week or so (I can visualize all those pelvic bones softening, which is like magic!) and lots of BH during the night (but nothing regular enough to count), but these past couple of days I've been way crampier than usual...it's wild to think that I could have three more weeks of this or a couple days! But the false alarm both helped me to feel closer to and farther away from giving birth…In the meantime, we're trying to finish thank-you cards (I'm so impressed at your swiftness!) and keep the house clean and do our fair share of television-viewing (we're catching up on season five of Mad Men--holy cow!), and we're looking forward to what's new in our worlds as much as we're quietly cherishing what's right now quiet (yes!, I know just what you mean, about how our lives will change forever so shortly! it's bewildering to anticipate this shift from a household of Mark-and-I, who can read at breakfast while sipping tea [so peaceful :)], to a household of newborn busyness. In any case, I ought close here and try to do more things while I can.”
Little did I realize that birth was so near, all the while that, in retrospect, it’s easy to see my crampiness as a clear indication.
By the time we met with our doula Whitney Waggoner on Saturday afternoon at 1 p.m., I’d been having contractions every five minutes for several hours; but still I felt as if it wasn’t real or time: the pain was palpable, but I felt so shy or reluctant to make presumptions as to my readiness, after Monday’s false alarm. During our meeting, I sat on a yoga ball (the most comfortable seat, I’d found, in those latter weeks of pregnancy), and alternated between a completely normal painless experience of conversation punctuated by staggering wincing contractions, every now and then. Whitney looked at me, said “I’m looking at you, and you seem to be in labor,” and passed over most of the paperwork and information of the “getting to know your doula” phase right into the “we’re in labor” urgent conversation. She examined me, and I was then a little more dilated, but nothing of consequence (I found it so valuable to be checked in advance of the hospital; had we been going by time and contraction, alone, I’d technically have been supposed to be at the hospital early Saturday afternoon—but Whitney’s ability to check my cervix allowed me to stay at home and more relaxed for a longer period of time, which I really needed and appreciated). She advised us to go home, try to sleep, eat a substantial dinner, take a bath in epsom salts, and keep her posted.
We stopped at the local Walgreen’s on our way home; Mark went in to pickup the bath salts (lavender!), which I’d never actually have time enough to use. Though I was quite hungry, nothing sounded particularly appealing, especially as I was anticipating its regurgitation if/as my labor intensified. We settled on Panera Bread takeout: pesto pasta and tomato soup, for me! And we settled down on the couch (around 6 p.m.) to watch an episode of Mad Men (season 5, episode 11), which turned out to feel tumultuous and overwhelming: Sally Draper got her first period; Lane Pryce committed suicide, and all the world felt intense and hard. During the episode, we paused the show during contractions (they’d intensified to the point that I couldn’t do anything else whilst having them); I ate my dinner ravenously; and I cried so often. All the talk about becoming a woman, about growing up, about protecting children—or oneself—from sadness (Lane’s suicide, an extreme case of downward spiraling into despair); the adults’ attempts to parent the children alongside the children’s attempts (or reluctance) to grow up felt so overwhelming as I sat there and bounced on my yoga ball with labor pains. As the show came to a close, Don and Glenn in the front seat of his car, Glenn behind the wheel, I wept inconsolably: “It’s all so beautiful,” I remember wailing to Mark. We also watched a couple of episodes of the Netflix series Derek, which felt just fine and innocuous and unremarkable compared to Mad Men’s grandiose drama. As the evening progressed, so did my labor; I finally called my parents to tell them that I probably was in real labor (I didn’t want to call too soon, lest they catch a flight only to sit with Mark and I in triage for a false alarm, which sounded like a nightmare). I snapped at my mother, when she asked whether I shouldn’t go to the hospital immediately to be monitored (not very cool of me, but I, too, was quite scared; and so I think that I lashed out and projected my fears onto her, as I tried to assure her—and me, by extension—that I wanted to wait at home, to try to get some sleep, until things seemed to escalate). I felt so excited and nervous to talk with my parents, so wanting to give them the good news of a their grandchild and feeling bewildered at the work I’d have to do, in order to make it so. Later in the evening, maybe around 10, we called Whitney, who had said earlier that we should call her “as things change”; she’d purposely left this phrase vague, such that we could feel free to call if emotional and/or physical changes happened. She checked me again for dilation, and my cervix had changed to 3 cm. Things were happening! We talked about the best time to go to the hospital, and she encouraged me to go whenever I’d feel comfortable. We lay down to sleep for awhile (Whitney slept on our couch, so sweet of her to stay with us); I hardly could achieve a steady sleep, but I managed to rest between contractions. I felt overwhelmed by “is this happening? It’s happening. Is this happening? It’s happening” fear and doubt and hope. Finally, around 3 a.m.-ish, I decided that I wanted to go to the hospital; I didn’t want to experience the much-feared “transition” in the car, and I felt in want of a fetal monitor so as to make sure that baby was healthy and weathering the contractions safely.
Because we’d already had a false alarm (and gone through triage) and because Whitney could vouch for my dilation (she had a great working relationship with the hospital), she called ahead and reserved for us what she called “the best room,” which had a Jacuzzi tub for birthing as well. I had the option of rolling into L&D in a wheelchair, but I walked the whole way from the car, so hellbent was I on being strong and proving something (?!) to myself. We had to stop several times, though, along the way; I remember leaning against the glass wall of the skyway from the parking lot to the hospital, just moaning in pain; same for the hallway just inside the hospital doors. As intense and painful as it was, I remember feeling so earthy and clear and in touch with my body, waddling and laboring my way into the hospital. Once in my labor room, I spent early time on the yoga ball, as they pricked me for an IV (hospital policy said that every patient needed to have the entry point inserted, perchance meds would be wanted or necessary later) and took my vitals. Whitney prepared me a hot bath with lovely lavender oil, and the heat felt absolutely heavenly on my painful abdomen (like a hot water bottle for cramps); getting into the tub felt ridiculous and absurd, as in, you want me to lift my legs and get into there?! But, once in, I didn’t ever want to leave. The water also helped me to feel less heavy, and so my body—beyond simply my abdomen—also relaxed and eased its pressure. I think I must have emerged from the tub after several hours, though time passes in a blur. Mark sat on the floor next to the tub, held my hand, and we both tried to get some sleep. I definitely slept between contractions, as their pain so intensely triggered endorphins that I actually went into hardcore REM sleep (or something like this, as I was dreaming? Perhaps it was more hallucination from pain than actual sleep, but I nonetheless felt rested) between contractions, so much so that I felt I’d dozed off for an hour or so, only to ask and be told that I’d been sleeping for only four minutes.
Mark kept praising me, loving me, touching me and telling me how I amazed him; and with each compliment and loving look, I felt my whole body relax. I felt so proud to make him so proud, and the whole experience was one of the times in our relationship when my love for him has felt most acute, if this makes sense. It’s imprecise to say that I loved him more or better in those hours, but it’s accurate to say that I’d never needed him as much as I did then, and he supported me so beautifully when it mattered most, for which I’m grateful and teary even to recall.
Getting out of the tub absolutely sucked, there’s no other way to say it. It was like shifting from a weightless environment into a gravitational pull, and with the heaviest bulging painful belly to boot. The next few hours passed in a blur, which felt like forever and nothing at once. I remember that Whitney kept shifting us among various “activities” in the room: I labored on my hands and knees; I labored on the ball while Mark squeezed my hips with contractions (this position in particular felt awesome, especially as he squeezed with the pain and massaged my lower back with almond oil (Whitney literally had a bag of tricks, which she pulled out at the most opportune and exactly-great moments!); I labored on the toilet, which felt awful, but really helped to progress my dilation. I had a hard time using the toilet, though I continually felt that I needed to; Whitney soaked a cloth in mint and waved it gently near my face, said “inhale this scent and think of the urine releasing from your body,” and—no kidding, like magic, I peed. Time and again, Mark and I would look at each other as if to say both we’re doing this!, we’re having a baby!, and holy cow, this woman is magic and awesome, and I’m so glad she’s here with us. Whitney asked whether we had music to play, and I admittedly had thought “I ought to make a playlist!” but had pushed that goal to the bottom of my priorities, as each day something new would arise to which I’d dedicate my attention. Whitney asked whether we liked Paul Simon, and I remember laboring on all fours and thinking how tinny and frail and inconsequential Paul Simon’s music felt by comparison (all that heaving and heaviness, I felt—all the grunting and moaning—just felt more dramatic than his thin little voice)—all the while that, for days after I hummed “Born at the Right Time” and even now, to think of it, I feel teary and shivery. I didn’t realize at the time just how imbedded sensations and sounds would be in my memory of laboring and birth, nor could I have anticipated just how blurred my experience of time would feel—minutes felt both like seconds and days, as I shifted into a completely new measure based on the contraction/not-contraction dichotomy.
Somewhere in the afternoon of Sunday, 29 September, things started stalling: I’d been dilated at 8 cm for several hours (according to a text message Mark sent, at both 11:12 a.m. and still at 3 p.m., I was at 8 cm), and Dr. Wyatt (unfortunately not my OB) and nurses started talking with us about how we might accelerate things. I was feeling completely exhausted, with no stamina or strength to talk about much of anything, and I remember fearing that this baby would be in me forever, so weak and exhausted I felt at even the prospect of pushing anything out of anywhere. I’d never in my life slept or eaten less over such a long timespan, and for that lack of sleep and food to coincide with such intense physical work really made me feel rather despairing. I’d known to expect this feeling—all of our classes, books, etc. prepared us for this sense of impossibility at this stage of labor—but reading and knowing about it wasn’t nearly (of course) the same as experiencing it. I didn’t say it out loud, only to Mark after the fact in retrospect, but I secretly wanted a c-section immediately then and there, just so that I could be finished. The second time that they checked me at 8 cm, I felt like I wasn’t going anywhere, and the whole process just seemed endless. Mark slipped me some excellent snacks (e.g. some pureed fruit that they sell in the babyfood aisle) and water, which helped to rally my energies. The pain all felt bearable—surely painful!, and several nurses would pop into the room and affectionately report that they could hear my moans down the hallway (I was beyond feeling self-conscious)—but bearable nonetheless; it was, for me, far more the exhaustion than the pain that nearly broke me.
In the spirit of breaking (or almost breaking), my bag of waters had yet to rupture—after all my worrying the week before! We discussed with Whitney and the doctor/nurses that perhaps their breaking my water could accelerate labor without dramatic intervention; we agreed. Baby Henry (who wasn’t “Henry” just yet, though I had a feeling ) had been bouncing his head against the bag for hours, with each contraction, but the membrane was too thick to be penetrated just yet. The doctor broke my water, and—as one might imagine—whoosh, things started happening again! I felt a huge sense of relief and excitement, and I surprised myself at how quickly my endorphins could again kick in with a we’re doing this kind of persistence and strength. I think that I started pushing too soon, only because I wanted to have this baby so desperately (a combination, I think, of both wanting to see him—wanting to believe that he’s real, to see that he’s okay, to understand this as really happening—and of wanting this long and exhausting process to reach its climax, to work toward the goal, to feel like my work hadn’t been for naught). In any case, I pushed for what seemed like forever, though I’m not sure just how long. According to messages that I’m piecing together, maybe somewhere between 1-2 hours. Those last two hours, I felt like I was sprinting a marathon, putting my entire energies into pushing and working on what was, more naturally, a longer process. I grew impatient, which I regret, but it was so hard to temper my enthusiasm! The pain felt surprisingly manageable in its predictability, even as it escalated; I was surprised at how measuredly the pain felt like a wave (I’d heard and read descriptions of this sensation, but was still taken aback by how clearly this was its shape): there’d be one sharp intense cramp, followed by its echo of sorts—its bolder, sharper echo, and then the wave would fall as the pain diminished. This sounds crazy, but I grew to appreciate the pattern and to attach some kind of comfort in its predictability. With Mark and Whitney at my side, coaching me and encouraging me and helping me as they could, I pushed for awhile on all fours, but that position came to be (I only learned in retrospect) less productive because Henry’s heartrate wasn’t recovering as well post-contraction as it ought (I’m so glad I didn’t know this).
Eventually the doctor came in, the lights came up, and I realized that it’s happening. I remember, earlier in the day, when first I’d met the doctor, he asked “so, are you ready to have a baby today?” and I weepily said “really, do you think it’s going to happen?” and the whole room laughed as he responded, “er, yes, definitely.” When he appeared again, all lights up and show begun, I felt so serious and intense and ready to do it. I sort of sat at the edge of the bed, which split apart so as to allow me leg support while my legs were open; and, with each contraction, it was sort of like a super-stomach-crunch—with Mark lifting my torso and head so that I could lean into the pushing. Whitney had soaked towels with hot water, which she placed on my perineum to ease the muscular tissue into stretching, and she encouraged me to push toward the heat (a brilliant move, as it helped me to focus my efforts toward a sensation). God knows I had absolutely no strength or stamina at this point, and Mark and Whitney really helped to keep me afloat towards the end. The nurses, Whitney, the doctor, and Mark all watched as the baby crowned (crowned! Crowned!, holy cow!), and then he proceeded to crown for many many more contractions; with each push, it felt like the grandest suspense film, everyone watching the little tip of his head—and me watching their expressions, as they open-mouthed hoped that they’d see more of his head/face. I reached down to touch the little top of his head, and I wept in amazement, as much as one could weep amidst all that chaos and pain and moaning and intensity. Feeling his little head further inspired me to push, all teeth gritted. I remember screaming during one contraction “baby, get out!” as if he could hear me and we had a pact together, all working to make him be born. The vocalizing really helped me, or at least I think that it did; the moans and yells, Mark says, became lower in scale as the day progressed—deeper in pitch as we came closer to birth. Somehow having a sound to make and associate with particular feelings (it’s strange, I associate the contraction itself with a kind of arpeggio musical structure, as if it has notes that rise and fall) helped me to appreciate the predictability. As we moved toward the end, things got more intense and precarious: they gave me an oxygen mask to help the baby’s heart rate, and also gave me an IV solution of sugar-water for hydration. I remember tossing off the mask, saying that I felt like I was suffocating, but Mark explained that the baby needed it; he gently lay the mask near my mouth, such that I could get oxygenated without feeling smothered. I felt panicky and desperate and excited, all at once.
The long and short of it is this: I kept pushing; Mark kept lifting me; the doctor and nurses and Whitney kept cheering me.
And then, good heavens, I can’t even write this sentence without tearing up: suddenly I felt this gush, this slippery gurgling ecstatic burst of baby that finally emerged, and it was Henry. Such a blur of feeling and bodies and sounds and sensations at that point. Finally. Our baby, alive, came out of me, and I felt absolutely ecstatic.
They placed him on my chest. I looked at his face—his sweet face!, and saw his open eyes, and they looked at me, and I remember thinking “he’s alive!” and then the nurse rushed him over to the baby warmer, telling me that he needed help. Mark went to that side of the room, while the doctor stitched me for a tear (I needed two stitches; I’m not sure quite when I tore, but I was amazed that—given all that pushing and retracting—I only needed two). I remember shouting questions about the baby: “is he okay? Breathing? Two arms? Two legs? Fingers? Toes?” and every answer was affirmative and reassuring, all the while that he needed some vigorous toweling before he cried. Mark explained that, as Henry lay on my chest the first time, he was growing purple (I didn’t notice any of this, only his eyes and face and that we were looking at each other), and the medical staff swifted him away to rough him up a bit and get his breathing going. They soon brought him back to me, and he lay on my chest and latched onto my nipple; all this was happening as the doctor stitched me, and I remember wincing in pain and crying with joy, with Mark and Henry, all at once. I remember thanking Whitney repeatedly and also our labor and delivery nurses (they all were the very best, doing things that nobody should have to do for another human) and feeling so moved and humbled and amazed that everything happened so beautifully. I also felt hungry and tired and dizzy with exhaustion, so much so that I could hardly walk to the bathroom or move my legs. But we had our baby, and we named him Henry, and I’d gladly repeat those hours of labor and months of pregnancy for this little perfect joyful son.
That first evening, Henry met all four of his grandparents; and I awoke the next morning feeling and saying that I’d never felt so happy in my whole life. I hadn’t allowed myself to truly process or acknowledge just how fearful of birth I’d felt, and that we had a healthy baby in our arms astonished me more than anything I’d ever experienced. My heart beats faster and my eyes water to write this sentence, as I continually feel such amazement with each new day and hour of Henry’s life. There’s more I could write, as to the time thereafter; but this account quite literally would be endless, given the infinite details that comprise every moment.
