[Author’s Note: This post summarizes the major content found in The Birth of Borealis: Parts I, II, III, and IV, but with less dialogue, less humor, and significantly less detail. (If you’ve read the full-length version, there is no added benefit to reading this shortened version.) However, even though I’ve gone light on the anatomical descriptions herein, this is still a birth story. Accordingly, this tale will involve, well, birth parts. Be forewarned.]
The story of my son’s birth doesn’t begin on February 15 — the day he was born. It doesn’t even start the day before that. Rather, the birth of Borealis commenced on the night of February 13, 2018, when I had my first true labor contraction.
It was in the midst of a heart-to-heart with my husband, Taylor. I blame the conversation for pumping me full of oxytocin — a bonding hormone that is also integral in labor and birth.
Our heart-to-heart was followed by a night of irregular contractions. I awoke on Valentine’s Day certain that my child was preparing to make his way out into the world. Unfortunately, a morning appointment at my birth center revealed that he would not be making his way out into the world *quickly*. The rest of the day confirmed this assessment. While my contractions continued to increase in intensity and regularity, they were still infrequent enough to suggest that the baby’s arrival was not imminent.
Consequently, I used the day to get things done: washing the dog, sweeping and vacuuming the floors, cleaning the bunny’s cage, etc. By the time Taylor got home from work that night, I was exhausted from more than just being in labor. I lay in bed while my husband timed my contractions, which, while still infrequent, had increased in regularity.
“I guess you’re in early labor,” he concluded.
Accordingly, my sleep that night was discontinuous — short increments of snoozing punctuated every seven to ten minutes by menstrual-cramp-like contractions. (Taylor, of course, slept straight through.)
The next morning wasn’t very different from the night before. My contractions arrived with approximately the same frequency and intensity, and the end was nowhere in sight. However, around mid-morning, Taylor helped me perform some midwife-recommended mid-labor exercises — after which point, my middling contractions started to kick into higher gear.
There was just one problem: they weren’t getting much closer together. Over the course of the next handful of hours, my contractions grew in length and intensity, but their frequency continued to hover around seven minutes apart. I felt no closer to the conclusion of our ordeal.
I finally chatted with Anika, the midwife on call, around 7pm. After hearing about my situation, she concluded, “I think you’re in prodromal labor, which is early labor that can last for days, or even weeks. At a hospital, you’d be given a sedative so you could sleep. But, since you’re at home, I would recommend that you make do with a warm bath and a Benadryl.”
I decided to take the midwife’s advice, but the prospect of a days-long labor pattern was terrifying. I was hopeful that, rather than putting me to sleep, the warm bath would actually bring me into active labor (finally). And the second that happened, I was ready to go to the birth center.
While I was in the tub, my family stopped by on their way to a nearby hotel. Taylor admitted my mother into the bathroom, where she encouraged and counseled me.
After a few minutes where I mostly just cried piteously while my mother comforted me, she concluded, “I’m pretty sure you’re not in early labor. You should go get checked.”
This was good advice; however, I was unwilling to follow it. This instance highlighted one of the downsides of going to a birth center (rather than a hospital). Hospitals always have medical professionals present — but after business hours, the same is not true of a birth center. I was confident that Anika would gladly meet us at the center once I was actually in active labor, but I didn’t want to bother her (and possibly wake her up) for what might only be a waste of time.
My family left soon afterwards with the admonition to let them know as soon as we left for the birth center. We agreed that we would, and I went back to laboring on my bed. For a short while thereafter, my contractions were less than six minutes apart, so I was hopeful that I might finally be nearing the end of early labor. Certainly, the seemingly unendurable intensity of each episode suggested that possibly.
Unfortunately, my contractions didn’t *stay* less than six minutes apart. By 8:30pm, their frequency had returned to about six and a half minutes, and I gave up hope that I was entering active labor — or that I would ever enter active labor. I finally took a Benadryl, and soon after, I was sleeping in five-minute increments between contractions.
That pattern held for about an hour. For each one-minute-plus contraction, Taylor stabilized/supported me while I moaned/cried throughout. I think both of us believed that we would continue with that arrangement until the sun came back up, and then probably until it went down again. I thought I might die before I actually gave birth.
Suddenly, around 9:30pm, the situation dramatically changed: my water broke. (It doesn’t always happen at the beginning of labor.) The incident drenched our sheets, so Taylor sent me to the bathroom to clean up while he changed the bed linens.
I shuffled to the toilet and peed, only to realize that I really had to poop as well. Since bowel movements are extremely common during labor, I figured I’d get it out of the way and save myself the embarrassment of pooping in front of a midwife.
Taylor joined me about twenty minutes later, having changed the sheets and started a wash. He discovered me halfheartedly working on a bowel movement, resting frequently because I was already so exhausted.
I told my husband that I wouldn’t be returning to the bedroom quite yet, and he responded, “Alright, well while you do that, I’m going to call Anika and fill her in her on the situation. I think we can finally claim to be in active labor now!” It was 9:54pm.
I hoped his assessment was true — even though my now-erratic contractions still didn’t fit the “correct pattern” for active labor.
As Taylor updated Anika, I started to realize that our fixation with the “correct pattern” might have led us to make a serious mistake.
Interrupting his monologue, I commanded, “Taylor, you need to tell her that I have the urge to push.”
When my husband complied, the midwife requested more information. Taylor casually leaned down to examine my nether regions, then casually sat back up and said, “Anika, I can see the baby’s head.”
Apparently, not everyone follows the “correct pattern” for labor progression. Somewhere along the way, I had exited early labor… and I had also gone through active labor and transition without realizing it. Somehow, I was now on the verge of delivering — even though the timing of my contractions still suggested that I was in early labor.
But, it didn’t really matter that my contractions still looked wrong; after all, this baby was clearly coming, regardless of what we thought.
As a result, everything happened pretty quickly after that. Even though she wasn’t a home birth midwife, Anika made the snap decision to drive to our house. (Well, actually, to run to our house, since an ice storm had frozen over her windshield.) She instructed me to breathe through the contractions and to refrain from pushing until she arrived to help deliver the baby. Taylor [mostly] enforced her command during each contraction and called to update my mother during a free minute.
Then, at 10:00pm, Anika called Taylor and panted, “Your door is locked!”
Knowing it wasn’t, Taylor responded, “Wrong house! I’ll come find you. You’re probably just down the street.”
As soon as Taylor left, my self-control evaporated. I unleashed the push I had been holding back and felt the baby’s head begin to emerge. Looking down, I saw a misshapen lump of moist, puce skin, and my first thought was, My baby has no face!
Luckily, it didn’t take me long to realize that what I was seeing was simply the back of my son’s head. After breathing a sigh of relief, I was suddenly gripped with the fear that, since I couldn’t see his nose, I had no idea if he was trying to breathe and suffocating instead. I have to birth his whole head, I decided.
With another push, his entire head had emerged. But then, I thought, Well, what if he tries to breathe now, but his chest is too constricted in the birth canal? The only solution I could see was to finish birthing my baby.
And so, I did. With one more push, my son came tumbling out into my hands (*not* into the toilet, upon which I was still sitting). It was 10:02pm on February 15, 2018.
Again, fear gripped me. For a few seconds, my child squirmed silently, and I didn’t know whether he would ever start breathing.
Please God, please don’t let him die, I prayed desperately.
Then, with a mighty gasp, my son started to scream. Praise the Lord!
Crying with relief, I held him at waist level and tried to figure out what to do next. His umbilical cord (which was still connected to the placenta, which was still connected to me) was wrapped loosely around his neck, and I knew I wouldn’t be able to hold his wet, wiggly body with only one hand to untangle him.
Thankfully, it was no more than thirty seconds before Taylor and Anika burst into the room. Anika immediately attended to her midwifery duties — grabbing towels and blotting the baby dry before wrapping us both in still more towels. Meanwhile, I looked at Taylor and hoarsely whispered, “This is our child! This is our son!”
We both teared up as I addressed our baby for the first time. “Borealis! Borealis! My son. My love. Borealis.”
Our son had arrived, but the night was far from over. Anika assessed each of our conditions and eventually decided that while both the baby and I seemed to be doing well, we should still be evaluated with more than just a cursory examination.
Meanwhile, Taylor called my mom to tell her that she had become a grandmother. We decided that they had time to come see the baby before I would be ready to leave the house.
After birthing my placenta, we moved from the bathroom to the bedroom. As I lay limply on my bed, Anika called to verify that we were allowed go to the birth center. Alas, we were not, for liability reasons. We would have to go to the hospital instead.
My family arrived just as we were getting ready to leave. After discovering that the party was moving, they quickly got back on the road.
The departure of Taylor, Anika, the baby, and me was a bit more sedate — mostly because I was in no position to be moving quickly. I got settled into the backseat, still clutching Borealis to my chest. Taylor carefully drove us along the icy route to the hospital, where Anika helped me into a wheelchair. Taylor went to park the car, and Anika wheeled me up to the labor and delivery ward.
Soon after, we were joined by my husband and the rest of my family. After the hectic surprises of the past hour, everyone breathed a little easier in the peaceful safety of the austere hospital room — especially since it was determined that, as Anika had initially suspected, there was nothing [medically] wrong with either the baby or me — well, besides low-ish blood pressure on my part. I successfully breastfed my son, much to the delight of everyone involved. Taylor took his first fatherhood duties seriously: meticulously sawing through the umbilical cord, diligently learning how to swaddle, and patiently enduring my tears and the baby’s tears.
Eventually, both Anika and my family had to leave for the night. The hospital nurses helped me pee — a process that involved me passing out twice and finally being wheeled back to my cot. Soon after, I was brought to a recovery room, where Taylor, Borealis, and I slumped eagerly into exhausted slumber.
Unfortunately, babies don’t tend to stay asleep for long stretches of time, so the restful night I had imagined was doomed to remain in my imagination. Taylor and I were up several times to change and feed the baby and to field the night nurse’s visits.
Early the next morning, we were told that while we had originally hoped for an immediate discharge, we would be kept in the hospital for an additional day. Furthermore, Borealis was a bit jaundiced — a condition which allowed the pediatrician to threaten an even longer stay.
Since we had planned to go to a birth center (which discharges four hours postpartum), we hadn’t done our due diligence in researching our rights as hospital patients. Accordingly, we didn’t know that we could have exited the hospital without being discharged (i.e. leaving “against medical advice”). Instead, I was repeatedly told that the best way I could facilitate our discharge was to nurse as much as possible, since breastmilk helps a newborn pass the bilirubin that causes jaundice. Unfortunately, like many nursing relationships, the one between Borealis and me got off to a bit of a rocky start — so the many exhortations to breastfeed did more psychological harm than good.
Thankfully, by the next day, Bo’s jaundice had abated somewhat — at least, to the point where we were finally allowed to leave. And so, a little less than four days after my first contraction, we brought back our son to the house where he had spent the first few minutes of his life outside the womb.
And of all the crazy ups and downs of our birth journey, this part was certainly my favorite: bringing Borealis home.