First children are the “practice” children. The parents’ experiment. The guinea pig. I’m sure you’ve all heard variations of these jokes. We test our parenting strategies and work out the kinks on the first one, so we’ll do better the next time around. I’ve made those jokes, and let’s be honest, will probably continue making them (outside the earshot of my daughter). But joking aside, having a chance to do childbirth again felt like an opportunity for redemption for me.
I had grand ideas of what childbirth and motherhood would be like before I had my daughter. I knew what kind of birth I wanted and how I hoped everything would go. Those plans went out the window with the words “possible IUGR” at my 38 week appointment. My belly hadn’t grown in a week and even with an ultrasound, my doctor couldn’t determine from the outside whether my daughter was just genetically small (she was) or if there was something that was keeping her from growing. We scheduled my induction for that Friday and by Saturday morning, I had a baby in my arms.
None of what I experienced in the hospital would ever be labeled “traumatic” by medical professionals. From their perspective, it was all very routine – foley bulb, pitocin, constant fetal monitoring, IV, laboring in bed, pain medicine, epidural, pushing while on my back – but like a lot of the human experience, trauma is subjective. I was not prepared for any of what happened at the hospital despite the childbirth class we took. I felt out of control and afraid the entire time, completely unable to advocate for myself. At times I was semiconscious, and by the end I’d fallen into a mental fog that didn’t lift for a long time after. And I felt like a failure. Somehow my body had failed to take sufficient care of my baby in the womb, and then my mind failed when I couldn’t handle the pain anymore and got an epidural at 8 cm dilated. Intellectually, I know that I didn’t fail. I delivered a healthy, but “compact” (as the doctor put it) baby girl. But try convincing your heart of something when it disagrees.
When we got pregnant with our son, one of the first things we did was contact a doula. I knew that I wanted a different birth experience and was determined to have one. Even if I had to have medical intervention again, I would at least have someone knowledgeable and there to support me through it. We were able to meet with our awesome doula, Laura, one time in person and officially sign the contract.
Enter COVID.
All our other sessions with her were virtual and despite contacting everyone we knew who might pull strings for us at the hospital, she was not going to be allowed to be with us in person. Regardless, she provided lots of written resources, was always available for me to text with questions throughout pregnancy, helped me write a birth plan, and prepped us to better advocate for me and the baby during labor and delivery. Despite this prep work, doubt still held firm in a corner of my mind. Given the chance to do everything natural, would I be physically and mentally able? Was I strong enough? All that was left was to pray that we had a team at the hospital who understood and respected our goals. And man, did God answer those prayers beyond my wildest dreams.
I went into labor on a Saturday two weeks before my due date. I’d been feeling off all afternoon and wasn’t sure what was going on at first, but by bedtime I knew I wouldn’t be able to sleep with that much discomfort. I finished packing my hospital bag and woke up my husband to pack his. We called a friend across town to come stay with our sleeping daughter, and headed to the hospital shortly after 1 am. Wearing our masks, we were temperature checked in the lobby and sent to observation in L&D. After they confirmed I was indeed in labor – 5 cm dilated – and my COVID test came back negative, we were moved to a delivery room and left to labor. I was quickly overwhelmed. What do I do now? I was trying to remember all the various laboring positions I’d learned, but the anxiety was starting to creep in. After a call to our doula to reset my attitude and calm my nerves, we settled in with all the tools I requested – a birthing ball, a peanut ball, a chair in the shower, and a portable monitor for intermittent monitoring.
At some point, my contractions slowed down and I started getting discouraged. I thought that second babies were supposed to come faster than first babies. What was wrong? By then it was time for the day shift to take over and our new nurse came in. She sat on the edge of the bed while I bounced on the birthing ball and said, “Natural childbirth is my jam. Let’s do this. Also, your doctor is working today, she’ll be here in a couple hours.” In a moment, I felt my anxiety lift and my confidence return. Our nurse, Jana, hardly left our room until our sweet baby boy was born at 11:08 that morning. She talked me through each contraction, performed counterpressure on my back to ease the pain, and coached my husband on how to best support me. With the help of our dream birthing team, I was able to finish laboring in whatever position I was most comfortable, and deliver my son with no medication and no additional medical intervention. It was intense and painful and I was exhausted, but the high was incredible.
Lying in the recovery room nursing my brand new baby boy, I felt my heart start to heal. My sense of failure from my first childbirth experience was replaced by intense pride in my body and its power. I wanted to experience natural labor and childbirth, and I had. It was over. All the fear, the stress, and the doubt were gone. I’d gotten a birthing do-over and with it, a precious son and a mended heart.
