Or, My Daughter’s Hollywood Entrance
[Author’s Note #1: This story heavily alludes to The Birth of Australis: Part I, but doesn’t [explicitly] necessitate its reading. Here’s all you need to know: I was thoroughly exhausted — but still pregnant! — when Taylor and I arrived at the birth center a little after 3am.]
[Author’s Note #2: This story also heavily alludes to the birth of my first child. You can start the full story here or read the condensed version here.]
[Author’s Note #3: Once again, be forewarned that this is a long, involved birth story. I would rate it PG-13 for blood, rudeness, and sexual innuendo — but not for language, because I always clean that up for this blog. If you don’t want to hear about my lady parts, please skip this post.]
Despite my best efforts, my daughter was born about six hours after her due date expired. So, if she were a Chemical Engineering assignment at Mines, I would have gotten a 0% for her delivery.
No — seriously. My undergraduate department had apparently never heard the aphorism, “Better late than never”. Instead, the official ChemE stance on homework was, “If it’s late, it goes directly in the trash.” I repeatedly saw seconds-late assignments tossed into the garbage by hard-nosed professors. As you may infer, this was an effective — albeit draconian — method by which to enforce punctuality.
Thankfully, my daughter is *not* a Chemical Engineering assignment at Mines, so she didn’t automatically start out life in the rubbish bin — either metaphorically or literally.
After all, a garbage can is so gross. I would never give birth in such unsanitary conditions.
<cue dramatic irony>
Act III: November 6th — 3:15am to 6:35am (ish)
So there I was: at the birth center, on the bed, laboring on hands and knees in the dark. Just like with my first pregnancy — except, you know, the “birth center” part.
Specifically, it was weird to have a midwife present *before* giving birth. Willa wasn’t intrusive, but she was present — and her presence inadvertently transformed my labor from an intimate struggle into a public trial.
I had known that walking inside the birth center was tantamount to surrendering direction of my labor process. Sure, I would have plenty of influence over how I labored — on the bed, in the tub, on the floor, etc. — but I’d have much less influence over the medical aspects of the process. Those details would instead be left to the medical professionals.
I had known about — and already agreed to — these restrictions, but I still chafed under the knowledge that I was no longer running the show. Ridiculous, I know. I guess Bo’s birth had given me an irrational sense of invincibility. Like, Well, nothing went wrong last time, so I guess we’re out of the woods! Cognitively, I knew this wasn’t true, but it didn’t stop me (and Taylor) from seriously considering another unassisted home birth — although, of course, we ultimately went with a birth center.
And, truly, I had little about which to complain. The birth center philosophy was very hands-off; it wasn’t like in the hospital, where I felt confused and disempowered. I knew my rights at the birth center, and I knew that — technically — I could decline a wide range of proposed procedures. In fact, I promptly declined the cervical check when it was offered. No thank you, I am quite glad keeping my vagina free of fingers and/or associated instruments. (Not exactly what I said, but basically that sentiment.)
Apparently, however, I could not decline fetal heartbeat monitoring — which, admittedly, wasn’t that bad. Every thirty minutes, Willa used the doppler to assess Australis’s heart rate during a contraction. In terms of “medical procedures”, this one was pretty low-intensity. I had to hold still during the reading, but otherwise I wasn’t much inconvenienced. I was mildly concerned, though, by the slew of tools that had not been present at my first delivery. Willa had them organized on a dresser, well away from the bed. I had the looming suspicion that a cervical check was the least of my concerns.
And, apart from those medical-related fears, I had to deal with the labor itself. I wanted to be tough about it — really, I did. After Borealis was born, many women in my new moms group had these BA stories of getting through contractions while upright: bracing against a countertop, or hanging from a bar, or (in one extreme case) literally dancing. I was embarrassed by my lackluster performance. Yeah, I mostly just did a glorified Child’s Pose while bleating like an injured goat.
So, this time, I harbored aspirations of some great feat of toughness. Yeah, I decided to run another marathon, and labor seemed like the perfect time to do it. Or maybe, Oh, labor? That was no big deal. I just slept through it. [Note: It’s not lost on me that, had I done a medicated birth, the latter claim might actually have been true.]
Needless to say, those aspirations evaporated pretty dang fast. My day was nearing twenty hours — almost half of which had been spent in labor. My arms ached from holding my swollen belly off the bed for each contraction, and I had long since given up on toughing it out alone. Instead, Taylor was now fully engaged in each contraction — kneeling behind me and lifting my heavy midsection. The relief on my back and shoulder muscles was incredible, but as a result, his arms now ached as well.
And then, just after the conclusion of an especially challenging contraction, my cell started to ring. I lifted my head and fixed a bleary gaze on the phone, which rested on the bedside table. The screen showed a picture from my freshman year of college — a shot of my mother and me at a Red Rocks concert.
[Note: This contact photo was replaced shortly thereafter by a picture of my mother holding my newborn daughter.]
“Why is your mom calling?” Taylor asked. “At… 3:47am?”
His guess was as good as mine. I hoped she wasn’t calling to say that she wouldn’t be able to make it up to Golden, which would send us scrambling for a replacement. Securing a babysitter is challenging enough without factoring in our other complications: on super short notice, in the dead of night, on a workday. Plus, I didn’t relish the idea of texting while laboring. (I hate texting even at the best of times.)
However, it was unproductive to merely speculate about my mother’s news. I sloppily swiped at the “answer” button, switched it to speakerphone, and mumbled, “Yeah?”
To my surprise, my mother answered with a chipper, “Good morning! How are you doing?”
In a rare moment, I was temporarily struck dumb. After a few seconds, I managed, “Well… I’m in labor, so there’s that.”
My mother laughed. “Yes, obviously. But how is your labor going?”
I glared up at Taylor, who had circled around to join the conversation. He [correctly] perceived that I might answer with something like, “Not good,” or “I’m gonna die” — so he quickly cut in with, “Really well. Her contractions are right around forty-five seconds long, but they’re all over the map in terms of frequency. I’m not even timing them at this point.”
“Oh, good!” my mother enthused. “Your little girl will be here so soon!”
Ignoring the encouragement, I asked, “Why are you calling right now?”
“Well, I texted you a bunch of times, but you didn’t open them — which is fair, because obviously you’re busy. But, I wanted to check in with you and make sure everything’s good on your end.”
I wracked my brain for any new information. “Uh… yeah, I don’t think so. Just be there by six-thirty. Bo should stay asleep for a while after you get there.”
“Great. I haven’t gotten your sister up yet, but we’ll probably get on the road between four-thirty and five.”
I glanced again at the time. “But how did you sleep? Why are you up so early?”
“I slept fine. I just woke up a little before my alarm.”
I wanted to further probe that insomnia reference, but I felt another contraction coming on — so I decided that our conversation could probably just be over. “Ok, great! Thanks love you bye!”
But, as I reached to end the call, my mother preempted, “Wait wait wait!”
“Ughhhhhhh,” I moaned. I rocked back into my loosely-hands-and-knees position, and counted fifty exhales before the contraction subsided. My mother and husband each waited patiently for me to regain my breath. Finally, I prompted, “Yes?”
My mother quickly asked, “Have you gotten checked yet?”
“No!”
“Why not?”
“Because it hurts like heck, and I already know I’m in labor! Knowing the exact number of centimeters isn’t gonna speed up the process!”
“Mkay,” my mother conceded. “I would just want to have the information, if it was me.”
“If it were I,” I grumbled. “It’s subjunctive — you know what, nevermind. Drive safe, and I’ll let you know when we have a baby.”
“Ok! Talk to you soon!” my mother said as she hung up.
“‘K bye!” I answered, belatedly adding, “Oh, and also, thanks for your help!”
Taylor grunted, then said, “You’re lucky she’s so generous.”
“Indeed,” I agreed. “I’ll apologize later.”
In the half hour after arriving at the birth center, I had somewhat settled into a laboring rhythm — don’t think much, don’t speak much, just breath through the contractions and rest during the breaks. However, my mother’s phone call unsettled me — specifically, her suggestion that, in my shoes, she would want some idea of how much longer she had to go.
So, during one of my breaks, I flopped onto my side and eyed Willa, who had just reentered the birthing room. “Well…” I started. “What do you think?”
She looked at me seriously and answered, “I think you’re in labor.”
I knew from her tone that I would be getting no speculation. Even still, I prompted, “Labor that might end when…?”
Willa scoffed gently. “If I could tell the future, I wouldn’t be working here.” And then she exited the room once again.
“Did she just say, ‘Quit yer whinin’ and get back to laborin’?’” I asked my husband.
Doula Taylor: <grunts in humorous confirmation>
It was nearing 4am, and I could picture my mother and sister eating breakfast in the predawn darkness — and, in a different context, I could also picture my mother insisting that Taylor and I nap while she cared for Bo. [Note: This latter fantasy actually happened later that same day, so my imaginings weren’t far off.]
But, in between me and sleep was the insurmountable obstacle of actually having a baby. I experimentally tensed my birthing muscles, but there was none of the positive feedback I remembered from delivering Bo. My daughter was not yet ready to be born — but I was eager to hurry her along.
So, after another contraction passed, I suggested, “Maybe I should do a bath?”
You might recall that a warm bath can be used to slow down “false labor” or to speed up “true labor”. (In fact, both of these phenomena played a part in my labor with Borealis.) But, this time, I was in no-kidding, midwife-confirmed “true labor”. As such, I was hopeful that soaking in the tub would hasten things along. Plus, Willa had preemptively drawn me a bath, and I would hate to let it go to waste.
Doula Taylor helped me off the bed, out of my clothes, and over to the huge soaking tub. I carefully climbed inside and tried to get comfortable.
I didn’t succeed. The issue was that I couldn’t resume my normal hands-and-knees labor position without drowning — although, I guess I could have drained most of the bath and knelt in mere inches of water. (For some reason, that option didn’t appeal to me.) Much to my chagrin, every other position was nearly unbearable. (So much for dancing through labor.)
After some trial and error, I ended up clinging to the side of the tub and bracing through a handful of contractions. I’ve heard women swear by water births, but in my case, laboring in the tub required significantly more energy than did laboring on the bed. I know the water was supposed to make me feel weightless and well-supported, but the bath didn’t hold up its end of the bargain. Instead, Doula Taylor shed his long-sleeve shirt so that he could reach into the water and hold up my aching belly.
On the plus side, the bath did seem to speed along my labor — or maybe it just felt that way, because all my contractions were so much more challenging. Regardless, I was eager to get out, but not before getting an idea of how far we had to go.
Willa was in and out of the birthing room — but during my bath, she was mostly out. I waited for what felt like an interminable length of time (i.e. about fifteen minutes) before the door crept open once again.
“Willa!” I shouted immediately.
“Yes?” she answered calmly.
I paused for an awkwardly long time. “I think I actually might want to know?” I asked lamely. I hoped she could parse through my veiled allusion to the true request beneath.
Sure enough, she did. With raised eyebrows, Willa clarified, “You want me to check you?”
I was so embarrassed, I couldn’t even meet her eyes. I didn’t know of what I was more ashamed: asking to have someone grope me (in a medical fashion), or so thoroughly recanting my previous opposition.
Thankfully, Willa was gracious in victory. She came over to the bath and rolled up her sleeves. My cheeks burned with discomfort and shame. I almost yelled, Nevermind! I was wrong, and I actually don’t want to know!
But the truth was, I really did want to know. Was this baby close or not?
I suspected that I was now in — or, at least, close to — transition. During my labor with Bo, the period between transition and birth had been about three hours; surely, this time around, it would be even faster.
That is, unless I wasn’t actually in transition. And that’s why I changed my mind about getting checked. A knowledge of the dilation wouldn’t hasten along my labor, but it would give me the opportunity to recalibrate my expectations if my estimate was wildly off.
I was so focused on the upcoming ordeal, I didn’t even notice that Willa was brandishing the doppler. So, I was surprised when she said, “Not yet — I’m going to check the baby’s heart rate first, during your next contraction.”
That was not a good moment for me: mid-contraction, naked, attempting to thrust my belly out of the water, and still dreading the impending dilation check. Thankfully, my daughter’s heartbeat was fine — otherwise, that would only have added to my anxiety.
After the contraction ended, Willa stowed the doppler and allowed me to regain my breath and resume a more normal position. Then, she reached a gloved hand down into the water. As she got her bearings (ahem), I braced for bad news. I hoped for 7cm; I chose to “expect” 5cm; and I feared 2cm. I knew that a very low dilation would shatter my expectations and crush my resolve. If I wasn’t at least halfway to delivery, I doubt I would have completed the trial sans-epidural — especially if I was facing a significant increase in the intensity of my [already quite intense] contractions.
Incidentally, I had not braced for the unbelievable pain of getting checked while in labor. Willa’s probing immediately triggered another contraction, and I bucked against the pain as she snapped, “Hold still! I haven’t measured yet.”
I did my best to comply, but the check took longer than expected — likely due to my writhing in agony. (And possibly Willa’s exhaustion. This was, like, her fourth birth in five days.) Finally, the midwife withdrew her fingers and announced, “Seven centimeters.”
I was elated. Amazingly, my intuition had been right! I was now confident that the end of my labor was in sight — probably within only two or three hours. All my worrying had been for naught.
When the contraction subsided, I leveled a glare at Willa and accused, “You gave me another contraction!”
Willa stood and pulled off her gloves. “Oh, that usually happens. Didn’t you know?”
The answer was no, I hadn’t known. I grumbled under my breath as Willa went to wash her hands.
Doula Taylor walked around the tub and gave my shoulders a brief squeeze. “Seven centimeters! That’s so good!”
I agreed, but I wanted some input from Willa. Her delivery had been toneless — neither proud nor discouraged — so I wanted to push for a true reaction. Raising my voice to an un-subtle bellow, I replied, “But it means that we’re not even in transition yet!” (Usually, transition is defined as cervical dilation from 8cm to 10cm.)
Pausing at the threshold, Willa corrected, “Well, it’s borderline transitional.” (Because sometimes the heuristic is 7cm to 10cm instead.) And then she exited the room once more.
“Borderline,” my husband repeated.
I sighed. “Yeah, I’ll take that.”
I was out of the bath shortly thereafter — following another aggressive contraction. Nearly drowning was bad enough during normal labor, but with the rapid approach of transition, I no longer had the strength to battle the bathtub.
Doula Taylor helped me out of the tub and onto the bathmat. The room wasn’t cold, but I still shivered. (Probably psychosomatic.) My husband wrapped me in the robe provided by the birth center, and we returned to the bed.
First things first. “Can you get me some underwear?”
Doula Taylor held up the pair that I had discarded pre-bath. “These?”
I shuddered. “Ew, no. Those are old, and I just took a bath. Grab me a fresh pair.”
My husband looked around as though expecting to find a panty dispenser.
“From the labor bag! I packed multiple.” (Because few things are more gross than rewearing underwear.)
Doula Taylor found the bag and fished out a pair of soft cotton undies. “These?”
“Yeah, those are great.”
He helped me slide on the panties, then return to a kneeling position — and I definitely needed that help. My balance was, to put it mildly, not so good. I’m poorly-coordinated at the best of times, so adjusting to a rapidly-changing center-of-gravity was well beyond my meager abilities.
On hands and knees, I looked down at my belly — the source of my shifting equilibrium. My daughter was clearly on the move; she had burrowed even further into my pelvis, leaving behind a flattened portion at the top of my abdomen.
“Alright, little girl, let’s make it happen,” I murmured.
Doula Taylor: <grunts inquisitively>
I wearily shook my head — i.e. almost smothered myself in the pillow. “I’m… just… so tired.”
He rubbed my back in sympathy. “I know, babe. You’re doing a great job.”
I lolled to the side so that I could look up at my husband. “I don’t feel like I’m doing a great job. I’m not doing anything. This is just happening to me.”
“It’s not that you’re doing anything — it’s that you’re not doing something: you’re not giving up.”
“Maybe I am giving up. Maybe I’m just gonna transfer to a hospital instead.”
Doula Taylor: <grunts in disbelief> “No, you’re not. I know you, and I know what it looks like when you give up. This isn’t it. If you had given up, I would be driving you to the hospital right now to get an epidural — but I know that’s not actually what you want.”
He was right, but I still snapped, “Don’t tell me what I want,” and then quickly added, “Ugh, here’s another one!”
My doula husband resumed his supporting position, and I smashed my forehead into the pillow and fought to maintain my rapid — but regular — breathing pattern. In out in out in out in out. As the contraction reached its peak, my concentration faltered — iiiiiiiin out in in ouuut iiiiiin out — until my support person noticed.
“Hey!” Doula Taylor snapped. “You gotta get your breathing under control!” — which was true, but easier said than done.
Allowing my breathing to get off-pattern was like letting a bike tilt from upright: recovery is possible, but challenging. I felt like I was drowning on dry land, and when the contraction finally ended, I was left gasping, my breathing still out-of-control.
Eventually, I was able to lift my head enough to scream, “AH!”
I had suddenly noticed a dark purple splotch on the pillowcase. It was a terrifying color for blood — and so much of it. I tried to locate the leak: not my nose, not my eyes, not my ears….
And then I realized: it was my hair. The “blood” was actually hair dye. (This was back when I had long hair and was dyeing it nearly black.) I had colored my hair earlier that week and hadn’t washed it since. All the “loose dye” originally destined for my shower drain was now trickling onto the birth center’s pillow.
“Oh, your hair dye!” Doula Taylor realized at the same moment.
“The pillowcase is ruined!” I shrieked.
“I can grab you a new one?”
I scoffed. “What, so that I can ruin that one too? No, I think one is good enough. They’ll have to throw this one out anyway.”
Doula Taylor rubbed my back. He knew how much it galls me for things to go to waste. “They’ll bleach it, babe. That’s why they have white bed linens.”
“Great. Then it’ll turn brassy. I know a great toner they can use.”
“Ha. They’ll just buy another, and it’ll be fine. This would’ve been hard to predict.”
I agreed with his assessment. Even so, when Willa returned a minute later, I immediately shouted, “Willa I ruined your pillowcase and possibly the pillow beneath!”
My verbal onslaught caught her off-guard. “I’m sorry, what happened?”
I gestured to the stain. I could tell that, for a second, she also thought it was blood.
“It’s hair dye!” I clarified quickly.
“Oh, goodness. Well, either it will wash out or it won’t. There’s really nothing to do about it right now.”
I wanted to suggest that she pretreat the stain now, while it was fresh, but I realized that my laundry guidance would probably fall on deaf ears. Willa’s attitude didn’t scream “laundry maid” — more like “tired but focused midwife”. So, I bit back the advice.
“Anyway,” Willa continued. “I just called Cara, our labor and delivery nurse, so she’ll be here soon — and so will Tina. She had wanted me to call her when you getting close.”
“Oh,” I answered lamely. For some reason, I was surprised by the news that my audience would grow once again. I’m sure I had been told that Willa would be assisted by a non-midwife-nurse, but I’m also sure that I hadn’t listened. However, I was much more surprised to hear that we’d be joined by Tina, the director of the birth center (and a mother of three). Surely she had better things to do before sunrise on a Wednesday morning…?
After a few seconds, I registered the last part of her pronouncement. “Wait, so you think I’m getting close?”
“The longer you labor, the closer you are to delivery,” Willa answered cryptically.
I clearly was getting no time estimate from this midwife, so I changed subjects. “So… do y’all have any nitric oxide?”
“Ni-trous oxide. And yes, we do.”
“So… could I maybe get some of that?”
[Note: Sure, I may be anti-epidural, but that doesn’t mean I’m pro-suffering — especially if I had access to a less-invasive pain management option that’s shown to be safe for both mom and baby.]
To my surprise, though, Willa’s response was calm but unyielding. “No.”
I was flabbergasted. “What? Why?”
“Because you don’t need it.”
“But I feel like I do…?” I spluttered.
“No. You don’t.”
And then she left again.
I turned to Doula Taylor. “What a heck?”
He laughed. “She’s right, babe. You don’t need it.”
“But I feel like I do!”
“Nah, you’re doing great. I’m pretty sure that laughing gas is more for anxiety and less for pain. Like, it makes you less anxious about your pain.”
“But I’m feeling pretty anxious about my pain!”
My husband laughed again. “The fact that you can joke like that shows that you’re not actually that anxious.”
And, apparently, that was that. Either way, I never got any nitrous oxide.
Willa returned again shortly thereafter, and her excursions halted after that. I guess my demeanor had changed enough to trigger her “hovering midwife” reflexes.
I had recently asked Doula Taylor to switch from supporting my belly to squeezing my butt — but he was now more than happy to let Willa take over his duties. However, Willa wasn’t thrilled about the energy-intensive activity, either. She swapped out her hands for a tourniquet-tight rebozo, but that technique gave me almost no relief. Apparently, what I needed was an industrial-sized clamp — something that could provide pinpoint pressure right on the outer edge of my gluteus maximus muscles.
So, my two birthing professionals took turns attempting to co-locate my hips — and after a while, I requested that Willa continue with the butt compressions while Taylor went back to holding up my belly. Without the dual support, my contractions had become unbearable — so much so that, for the first time, I considered yelling during labor. (Remember — I kept my sounds to an absolute minimum while in labor with Borealis because I didn’t want to disturb my college roommates. After all, labor can sound positively terrifying.)
But before I let it out, I needed confirmation that I wouldn’t be bothering anyone.
“Willa,” I panted between contractions. “Is there anyone else in this building?”
“No. Nothing else opens before 7am.”
“Wait — so is there anyone else in the birth center?”
“No. Until Tina and Cara arrive, it’s just us.”
“No one else is in labor?”
“Thank goodness, no. Although, if our pattern holds, someone else will be in labor later today.”
I felt bad for adding to Willa’s work load. (That is a negative about attending a small birth center — the case load isn’t always well-balanced.) “I’m sorry for being in labor right now,” I apologized.
Willa laughed. “Yes, it was very inconsiderate of you to choose to go into labor during a rush of deliveries.”
I chuckled too, then returned to my original line of questioning. “So… I wouldn’t be disturbing anyone if I yelled.”
Willa leveled a serious look at me. “That’s what you’re concerned about?”
“Um, yes.”
“Well, you don’t have to worry. No one else can hear you — besides the people in this room right now. And we’re not going to be bothered if you let loose a little bit.”
So I did, and I’m honestly not sure whether it was better or worse to yell. Sure, I wasn’t concentrating on holding my pain inside — but, now I was no longer distracted by the task. During my labor with Borealis, a huge portion of my attention went toward mitigating (though not eliminating) the impact I had on my roommates. It was exhausting, but diverting. By focusing on my volume, I had much less ability to focus on my pain — which fed into a virtuous cycle of both volume and pain management.
Now, I wasn’t trying to keep quiet — and that let me focus only on my pain and exhaustion. This was easily the worst all-nighter of my life. (All the others have been accompanied by chocolate and tea — and also no screaming.) My entire body ached from holding myself up for each contraction. In fact, I was so weary, I couldn’t even roll onto my side in between waves. Instead, I sort of collapsed onto my chest but kept my hips propped up. (Yes — I looked real cute.)
That reluctance to change positions sprang partly from the continued irregularity of my contractions. Sometimes they were two minutes apart, sometimes they were seven minutes apart, and usually they were somewhere in between. Unfortunately, I couldn’t even enjoy the unexpectedly longer respites because I was constantly on high alert, knowing that each second could bring a fresh wave of pain. In short, it seemed better to just remain kneeling indefinitely, rather than having to leap back into position at the irregular drop of a dime.
Doula Taylor, true to form, continued to ply me with water, especially as transition intensified. (Dehydration can make contractions worse.) So, my contractions were increasingly intermingled with trips to the attached bathroom, where I left the lights off and peed in the dark. Each time, I tested my pushing muscles — but each time, I was dissuaded by the lack of internal response.
But it was only a matter of time.
Tina and Cara arrived around 5am, as I was in the midst of a long, yell-y transition contraction. Exertion had caused me to shed my robe, and I regretted that I hadn’t donned a bra. At least I was panty-clad — otherwise the newcomers’ first look at me would have been bare lady parts.
[Note: You might have noticed a shift in my “private parts” language, and that change was driven by our potty-training Aza. I couldn’t bear to say, “Wipe your nether regions!” — and the command “Wipe your vulva!” — while anatomically accurate — has all the poetry of a rusty chainsaw. So, we’ve adopted “lady parts”, which bears the dual benefits of being relatively specific and also appropriate [ish] for mixed company.]
Once again, I couldn’t decide what I felt the most shame about: my near-nudity, or my embarrassingly expressive bellows. [Note: Maybe I ought not to have been embarrassed of the latter. After all, it seems that my well-camouflaged pain was one of the contributing factors in our accidental home birth of Borealis.] Either way, I wished that the pair had waited to make their entrance until this contraction had passed — which it did, after an interminable length of awkward silence. (Broken only, of course, by my wails.)
As I regained my breath, Willa made introductions. “Holly, this is Cara, our labor and delivery nurse. She’ll be assisting me, especially as you get closer to delivery. And of course, you know Tina.”
I flopped to the side — just enough to place the newcomers in my peripheral. “Always lovely to see you, Tina,” I greeted, still slightly out-of-breath. “And it’s nice to meet you, Cara. I’m Holly, that’s Taylor, and this is Australis.”
“Who is what now?” Cara asked.
“She’s introducing her baby,” Willa explained.
“I mean, she’s the reason we’re all here,” I quipped.
Cara laughed at my mild sarcasm, and I liked her immediately. Tina, meanwhile, rushed to my bedside and gave me a gentle squeeze.
“I’m so excited for you!” she enthused. “I can’t believe we’re here. It feels like just last week that you were touring the birth center for the first time!”
I was a huge fan of Tina. We’d met more than a year prior — before her birth center even opened — and I’d seen her a dozen times since. Even so, I was surprised by her presence that morning. I had been under the impression that her skillset was more executive than medical. Did she attend all her clients’ births? (I later learned that no, she didn’t — just the ones she really liked!) But, I couldn’t voice all of that, so instead I asked, “What are you doing here, Tina? You’re losing sleep for me!”
Tina scoffed. “What? I wouldn’t miss this for the world!”
So that was that. Tina immediately became another doula, which freed up Willa to do more midwife-y things with Cara, who was rather laconic as they got to work.
[Note: I later found out that her night had been less than restful. She hadn’t taken seriously Willa’s notice of my irregular labor. After all, “four contractions in two-and-a-half hours” doesn’t easily translate into “get some sleep, because this baby is coming soon!” — so when she arrived at the birth center, she was basically still unconscious.]
Doula Taylor, likewise, was his normal near-silent self — occasionally whispering Doge-inspired encouragements into my ear. Much Wifey! So labor! Very tough! Wow! And Willa, of course, was as calm and professional as ever. In fact, it was really only Tina who sought to engage me in conversation, and I was surprisingly glad for the distraction.
“Remind me again of your nickname for her?”
“‘Alis’ if she’s sweet, and ‘Aza’ if she’s sassy.” [Note: This was prophetic.]
“Oh, yes. I love your taste in names. And you’ve already made such a cute kid! I bet she’ll be just as adorable.”
“I sure hope so!!”
Every several minutes, I was gripped by another contraction. However, while I could tell that they hurt, I had a strange lucid-dreaming-like awareness of the pain. Wow, I won’t remember this feeling, I thought [accurately]. It’s about time to have this baby.
I eyed Tina and speculated that she might be more forthcoming than Willa had been in estimating my time of delivery.
“So… how long from now do you think I’ll give birth?” Then, in a weak attempt to sound less narcissistic, I added, “I don’t want to keep you away from your family, or work or whatever.” (Subtle I am not.)
Tina gave me a once-over, and it is to her credit that she didn’t cringe. “I think your daughter will be born within the hour.”
“And what time is it?”
She glanced down at her watch. “About five-fifteen.”
I was elated to have a goal in mind — and I hardly cared whether her estimate was correct. She could have said, “Exactly ninety-seven minutes,” and I would have taken her guess as absolute truth. I just needed to know that the end was in sight, and drawing ever closer.
Again, I experimentally tensed my birthing muscles. I thought I could discern the tiniest bit of positive feedback — but not enough to suggest that my baby was ready to emerge.
“Willa?” I called.
“Yes?” Her response came from right behind me. The three other support people alternated among the hip-squeezing and belly-lifting tasks, but Willa was never far. Aside from continuing the doppler readings, she was (I think) also monitoring my behavior for any signs that I was in [medical] distress. (I was already in emotional distress.)
“When should I push?” I asked.
“Do you have a physical urge to push?”
I contemplated her question for a few seconds. “No, but I have a mental urge to push.”
“Then don’t push. If you push before your body is ready, then you’ll tear.”
I immediately stopped pushing.
Things continued like that — in a thick, nightmare-like haze — for another half hour. I was aware of time passing — but only because I kept asking the time. Every minute brought us closer to Tina’s estimated time of delivery. But besides those updates, the world felt stagnant. Sometimes I was mid-contraction; sometimes I wasn’t. The only thing that differentiated the passage of time was my brief conversations with Tina, or occasionally one of the other onlookers. Oh, or when Willa took off my underwear.
I was mid-contraction, and all of a sudden my underwear was slithering its way down my legs. And I knew it wasn’t Taylor, because both his hands were firmly on my belly.
“Ah! What are you doing!?” I screamed.
“I’m removing your underwear.”
I squirmed away from her hands and tried to breathe through the rest of that contraction — a challenging task, considering I was now hopping mad.
When I was finally able to speak again, I gasped, “Well, *why* are you removing my underwear?”
“Because it seems like you might be getting ready to push, and I wanted to remove any obstructions.”
This was a bridge too far for me. I’ve heard that labor brings you to the end of yourself — and if that’s true, then apparently the end of myself is an unrepentant, unyielding, sassy prude. And poor Willa angered that prudish beast.
Whipping my head around to glare at the midwife, I seethed, “I have no intention of pushing on this bed. I’ve already ops tested that plan, and it didn’t go so well for my sheets. And, do you really think that some flimsy underwear would prevent me from giving birth? I’m pretty sure I’m stronger than Victoria’s Secret.”
Willa held up her hands. “That all is fine. I just wanted to help you be prepared.”
“Well, you should’ve asked my permission before undressing me!” I snapped.
[Note: I still agree with this sentiment. Unless my health is in actual danger, no medical professional should feel like they can undress me without permission — especially if they know that I hate to be naked. But, I ought to have been more polite.]
“I’m sorry,” Willa conceded. “May I remove your underwear the rest of the way!”
“No!”
Doula Taylor, who still squatted beside me, lay a comforting hand on my shoulder. “Babe, she’s right. You’re getting really close. If you’re going to the toilet soon, you won’t want to be dealing with underwear too.”
I growled at what felt like my husband’s betrayal. But, he made a good point. “Fine!” I spat. “I guess take them off the rest of the way.”
Willa did so, and I was once again in my birthday suit. Completely naked: the best way to give birth. (Or so I’ve been told.)
Thus humiliated, I decided to make a bid for the finish line. “Alright. Help me up.”
“You’re ready now?” Doula Taylor clarified.
“Maybe,” I answered accurately. “What time is it?”
He glanced at my phone. “Like, five-forty-five.”
I sighed. “Ok. Let’s go.”
Doula Taylor (and Tina, and Cara) helped me to a standing position, while Willa walked ahead of us to ensure sufficient underpad coverage on the bathroom floor. This potty break felt very different from the others. For one, all four of my support people had crowded into the bathroom — and for another, Willa insisted that the lights be turned on.
“If you’re going to be pushing out a baby, I need to be able to see,” she explained.
As I got settled onto the porcelain throne, Tina addressed me. “Do you want me to take pictures? Do you have a camera?”
Doula Taylor answered, “Yes — I brought our DSLR. I’ll go grab it.”
As he left to retrieve our camera, I called, “Grab my phone too!” Then, turning to Tina, I commanded, “Please keep it tasteful! Minimize the explicit stuff!”
“I will!” she laughed.
Doula Taylor’s return brought with it a palpable sense of expectation. We all waited for my next contraction, which was not long in arriving.
Here it was: the moment of truth. And the truth was… this was not the moment.
After pushing through the contraction, I sighed and admitted, “Ugh, I’m sorry. I’m just not there yet.”
“That’s fine,” Willa said. “Do you want to stay here, or go back to the bed?”
I considered for a few seconds. Delivery had definitely felt much more imminent a few minutes ago, on the bed — but now, I had no sense of how much longer this baby might delay. I was reluctant to stay on the toilet if my daughter’s arrival was still an hour away.
“I guess back to the bed,” I finally decided.
Doula Taylor helped me up and guided me back to the bed, which I noticed had been layered with underpads. I wondered how long they had been there — and how little confidence Willa had in my ability to give birth on-target. (After all, my track record wasn’t so great.)
I wearily returned to kneeling, and Taylor lay on the bed beside me. His earlier nap had clearly done little to dull his exhaustion.
We waited like that for another contraction, which was mere moments away. But, in contrast to its predecessor, this one bore with it the unmistakeable urge to push. I groaned and pressed into the feeling, which was still resistible — for the time being. I hoped that the sensation would grow, and quickly. I wanted this baby out, stat. And, if I had to guess, I imagined everyone else felt the same way.
Well, everyone except Tina. Amazingly, her excitement had only grown since her arrival, and she continued to pepper me with encouragements. Her unaffected eagerness gave me a glimpse into why she had started the birth center in the first place.
Unfortunately, I didn’t share her enthusiasm. I was so, so over being in labor. It was neat for the first twelve hours, but now I was utterly ready to be done. That frustration boiled over into some serious sassiness — especially with regard to Willa. [Note: I apologized later.]
After a few more contractions, the midwife remarked, “You know, you can just give birth on the bed.”
“I am not giving birth on the bed!” I shouted. “Why are you trying to make more work for yourself? If I do what I want and give birth on the toilet, then — flush! — the problem magically goes away. But if I give birth on the bed, you’re stuck cleaning up six dozen blood pads. So is that really what you want?”
“You can give birth wherever you feel comfortable,” Willa mollified.
Tina cut in. “Well, you could do the bath! That’s also pretty easy to clean up.”
I leveled an incredulous look her way — although, considering my face was still smashed into the pillow, I doubt she noticed my skepticism. “Yeah. That’ll be great when I drown in my own blood.”
Tina laughed.
“But actually,” I muttered. I definitely didn’t have the strength to sit up in that tub — and also, ewwwwwwwww. I generally like to keep my outsides clean of my insides.
After another few minutes and another contraction, I felt like I was finally ready. “Alright, second time’s the charm,” I grumbled.
“That’s not how that saying goes,” Cara deadpanned.
“Shut it, Cara,” I snapped back. The nurse smirked in response.
I was seated just in time for another contraction, but this one was mere seconds long. I barely started pushing before the wave had passed.
“Great,” I sighed. “I’ll have this baby in ten-second increments.”
“The next one will be longer,” Willa predicted.
As I waited to see whether Willa was right, I got as comfortable as possible, which wasn’t easy on a ceramic toilet. There were waist-height bars to my left and rear, but I couldn’t brace on both without significant exertion. I settled for grasping the bar to my left and laying my head against that arm. Tina noticed my efforts and slid a rolled-up towel between my arm and head.
Willa, meanwhile, knelt before me in preparation for the next contraction. “This isn’t enough light,” she said. “Can I use someone’s phone?”
Taylor handed Willa my phone, and I was glad we had brought a charger — although, admittedly, this situation was not as dire as others have been. Willa used the phone flashlight to illuminate my lady parts, and then she waited for me to push.
Thankfully, she didn’t have long to wait. Another contraction arrived soon after. Doula Taylor extended his arm for me to grip with my free hand. It wasn’t a wall-mounted bar, but it would have to do. Willa examined my pushing, then whipped out the doppler for another reading.
“What!” I panted. “Didn’t you just do that?”
She shrugged. “Every fifteen minutes during pushing.”
I growled through the rest of that contraction.
I looked over at Tina. “What time is it?”
“Almost six.”
“Man, Tina, you had said that I’d have this baby ‘within the hour’ — and the hour’s almost up!”
She cocked her head to the side. “Oh, did I say ‘within the hour’? I guess I meant ‘within an hour’. You’ve still got a little longer to go!”
The situation felt quite ironic. Rather than dreading my contractions, I was now eager for them; after all, they were my only opportunities during which to make any headway. (The rule is to push during the contractions and rest in between.) But, in another ironic twist, my contractions had noticeably slowed in frequency and shortened in length. So, I was stuck in what felt like an endless cycle of fruitless pushing and restless waiting.
I could tell that my lack of progress was also wearing on the others — but especially my poor husband. Tina had replaced him in providing me with a hand to hold, and Doula Taylor now squatted several feet away, looking much less like a doula and much more like an exhausted husband.
“Do you want to go back to the bed?” he asked.
I steeled myself and answered, “No. I am not leaving this toilet without a baby.”
Retired Doula Taylor: <grunts in weary acceptance>
Several minutes later, after another especially frustrating contraction, I complained, “Why is this so hard!? I just can’t get her to lock in. Like, I can feel that I’m moving her down, but then it feels like all that progress is gone by the next contraction.”
Willa straightened up. She had watched my pushing again, and now announced, “I don’t think the amniotic sac has broken yet.”
I blew out a heavy breath. “Ugh. So my own body is working against me at this point.”
Willa’s statement had conjured a vivid mental image: my infant daughter, encapsulated in an elastic balloon secured to my uterus. Every time I pushed down on my baby, the elastic pulled her right back up. The analogy explained why I was getting so little engagement from pushing. I could feel the urge, but I couldn’t feel much positive feedback.
“She’s not even in the birth canal yet,” I realized suddenly.
“It doesn’t appear so. I can see her, but she’s still pretty far back.”
I groaned. “Can’t you just break the amniotic sac?”
Willa placidly shook her head. “No, that’s not what we do. We’ll allow the labor to run its own course.”
“I don’t like that!” I snapped — and I could tell from my husband’s cocked eyebrow that he didn’t, either.
“You don’t have to like it. But, your body will need to work through this on its own.”
I let out a loud, protracted sigh, then finally said, “Ok. I guess we’ll see.”
Another contraction passed, and this time, I was even more frustrated. Now that I knew I was pushing against the amniotic sac, the sensation was so obvious. It was like trying to push a cork underwater — it just kept popping back up.
“When is this baby going to be born!?” I groused.
“When you actually start pushing,” was Cara’s matter-of-fact reply.
I glared at the nurse. “I am pushing!”
She scoffed. “No, like actually pushing.”
“I am actually pushing!”
Eye roll. “Please. If you were actually pushing, you would have had this baby already.”
Willa cut in. “We want, like a Hollywood push!”
I snorted. “Oh, yeah, that clears it up.” Then, screwing up my face, I bellowed a loud, artificial, “Eh-EHHHHHH!”
Everyone laughed, which lightened the mood but got me no closer to actually giving birth.
“Do you want to turn around?” Tina suggested, squeezing my hand. “You could lay your head on the back of the toilet, and that would let you rest a little.”
I swung my gaze drunkenly to her. “Nah.”
“But it might be easier for you, and it’d still be on the toilet.”
I sighed. “Tina, there are multiple reasons why that’s not gonna work for me. One, it requires moving. Two, it involves not staying right here without moving. And three, I just don’t want to.”
“Ok. It’s up to you!” she chuckled.
“What time is it?” I asked for the millionth time.
“Like, six-fifteen.”
“So, ‘within an hour’?”
Tina grinned. “She must be almost here, then!”
During the next contraction, I tried for Hollywood-level intensity — but for me, that’s not a big, theatrical scream. It’s a bone-deep, guttural roar, accompanied by the tensing of my entire body. Willa took one look at me and grabbed a pair of gloves.
As I caught my breath, I asked, “Why are you putting on gloves?”
“Because you’re about to have this baby,” she answered.
My sluggish mind finally put the pieces together. “Oh! Um, but you’re not catching her. Taylor is.”
Willa, to her credit, immediately conceded. She removed her gloves and gestured for my husband to fill her vacated position. “But wash your hands first,” she instructed.
“Wait, doesn’t he need gloves?” I asked.
Willa shot me an amused look, “Uh, no. He’s the baby’s father.”
So, apparently that cleared things up.
Midwife Taylor washed his hands and squatted before me with obvious anxiety.
“Are you ready?” I checked.
“Um, I think so,” he answered.
I was concerned by his lack of conviction. “Uh — do you still want to do this?”
He straightened and responded, “No, I do — I’m just nervous that I’ll mess it up somehow, like I’ll drop her.”
I eyed Taylor’s 99th percentile hands. “I think you’re gonna be ok. This isn’t, like, greased pig wrestling.”
Midwife Taylor: <grunts with anxious amusement>
He positioned his hand under my lady parts — like our daughter was about to shoot out of my body and fly at mach speed into the toilet.
“What are you doing?” I demanded.
“I just want to be ready!”
“There is such a thing as too ready,” I muttered, then prepared for my oncoming contraction.
This time, I focused all of my body, mind, and spirit on pushing, and finally — finally — I felt my baby’s head engage.
“I think she’s in the birth canal,” I gasped.
Midwife Taylor leaned in and gestured for Willa to bring over the phone flashlight. “Yeah, I can definitely see her, so maybe! And wow, yeah, she’s still in her amniotic sac.”
I was elated. Australis was almost earthside!
The excitement in the room was palpable. Tina couldn’t stop grinning, and Cara finally seemed more awake. Even Willa bore a faint smile.
But several contraction-free minutes later, those smiles seemed a little forced.
“Why is this happening?” I asked Willa, who had come over to take an unscheduled doppler reading.
She shrugged. “Sometimes labor stalls out. Baby’s doing fine, though — so we’re just going to wait a couple more minutes. We’ve got options, if we need them.”
My mind flashed back to the dresser of medical instruments. I suddenly envisioned Willa cutting my daughter out of me and holding her up in bloody triumph while Cara solemnly intoned, “Australis was from her mother’s womb untimely ripped.” (Macbeth)
My eyes must have shown that [unjustified] terror, because Midwife Taylor said, “Hey — stay with me. We’re almost there.”
And a few seconds later, I had the chance to prove him right.
Here it was: the final contraction, and everyone knew it. Willa and Cara stood at medical readiness; Taylor prepared to catch a 95mph fastball; Tina grasped my hand with both of hers. With my daughter’s head already engaged, pushing became so natural — just like I had remembered. My whole body was in sync for one insane, timeless moment. I felt my birth canal expand to let Australis out into the world. And then —
“Wait wait wait! Not so fast! You’re gonna tear!”
— Willa stole all the wind from my sails. (Again.)
I paused for a few seconds — and then I was like, Oh wait! I do what I want.
So I pushed her out the rest of the way.
To Midwife Taylor’s surprise, our daughter didn’t emerge at mach speed — more like, turtle speed. He had ample time to gather her carefully into his huge hands, cradling her as the most precious thing he had ever held. Her amniotic sac split open as she left the birth canal, and by the time she had fully emerged, it was gathered around her shoulders and draped over her body like a strapless gown. It felt appropriate when, at that moment, she opened her mouth and let out an operatic wail.
I started crying — or maybe I continued crying. This was the culmination of so much work: so many hours of labor; so many months of pregnancy; so many years of prayer. Gathering myself, I finally laughed weakly and said, “I can’t believe she has hair!”
Daddy Taylor looked up in wonder. “I know, and it’s so dark!” [Note: All this hair fell out and was eventually replaced by pale golden ringlets.]
Willa produced a towel from nowhere (which is, of course, a special talent of midwives) and draped it around Australis — simultaneously tabulating the one-minute Apgar assessment. She relayed the number to Cara, although I don’t remember its exact value — probably 7 or 8. (I know for certain that my daughter lost points in the “appearance” category.)
Enervated once more, I had returned to slouching on the toilet, watching my husband hold our newborn daughter. Tina disengaged her hand from mine and went to grab the camera. Watched over by a laser-focused Willa, Taylor carefully placed Australis against my chest, automatically positioning a hand behind her — just in case.
Looking down at my daughter, I breathed, “Wow… she’s hideous.”
Willa hesitated, then admitted, “She’s just a bit beat-up from her quick trip through the birth canal. But her head is a great shape… because it wasn’t compressed by the canal.”
[Note: It wasn’t until our two-day postpartum appointment that Willa told us this: “Well, obviously she was alive — because she was crying and had good muscle tone — but she looked like a dead baby… and I’m saying that from experience.”]
I felt terrible. My first baby was an unassisted home birth, and now my second baby looked like a stillbirth — but thankfully wasn’t. I wouldn’t be winning “Birther of the Year” anytime soon.
But, despite her bruises, Australis seemed otherwise healthy. She snuggled against my chest and whimpered softly, shutting her eyes tightly against the light.
Tina continued to snap pictures, but otherwise, the birth center staff gave our little family some space to bask in the wonder and joy — and grossness — of new life. It was a moment frozen in time — a moment none of us would remember. Seriously — thank goodness for pictures. I have absolutely no memory of what was said during those precious few minutes.
Alas, all such moments must come to an end — in this case, for the five-minute Apgar assessment. Willa crept in beside Taylor and pulled down my daughter’s swaddling towel. “So I can see her skin tone,” she explained.
“Ooh, she’s still got some of her amniotic sac!” Tina exclaimed. “Can you spread it out so I can get a picture?”
Taylor carefully slid his fingers under the membrane and marveled, “Wow, this is so thin. I can’t believe this didn’t split open from, like, her scratching it or something.”
“It’s stronger than it looks,” Willa answered sagely.
Tina grinned and snapped her picture.
Willa straightened and started to shuffle away, but I preempted, “Wait! I’m about to have the placenta.”
She returned to a crouch before me, and Taylor hopped up to wash his hands and grab his phone. He then joined Tina in photo-duty.
“Ok, whenever you’re ready,” Willa prompted.
I gave a small push, and — splash! — the placenta slid out of my body — accompanied by a huge gush of blood. (Yeah… We’ll revisit that in The Birth of Australis: Part III.) Willa had grabbed the umbilical cord and now used it to haul in the placenta — like the world’s weirdest fisherman. She secured her catch and plopped it into a big metal bowl.
Meanwhile, Australis’s behavior had undergone a marked change. I had shifted her to the side so that I could look down at our placenta — but, once in that side-lying position, my daughter promptly sprang into action. She opened her mouth and began tossing her head back and forth against my chest in ever-widening arcs.
I looked up at Willa. “I think she’s rooting?” I asked incredulously.
She shrugged. “It appears so. Are you ready to feed her?”
I was bewildered. My daughter was not yet fifteen minutes old, and already she wanted some boob. I brought her closer to my breast, and her mouth soon encountered my nipple — at which point, she immediately stopped rooting.
But, she didn’t start nursing. In fact, she seemed entirely at peace holding my nipple gently within her mouth. No sucking, no chewing — just comfort.
I watched my daughter for a minute, reveling in the joy that I got to be her mother: to conceive her, to carry her, to birth her, and now to nourish her. But without a doubt, my most important task would be to raise her in the love and fear of the LORD. And so, eyes closed in sincerity and fervor, I stumbled through the words of the verses we chose for Australis Reverie Rose.
‘And it shall come to pass in the last days, says God,
Acts 2:17-18, 21 NKJV
That I will pour out of My Spirit on all flesh;
Your sons and your daughters shall prophesy,
Your young men shall see visions,
Your old men shall dream dreams.
And on My menservants and on My maidservants
I will pour out My Spirit in those days;
And they shall prophesy….
And it shall come to pass
That whoever calls on the name of the Lord
Shall be saved.’
Our precious little girl — would you always live in love and reverie.
To be continued in The Birth of Australis: Part III, which will bring our journey to a near-close.