Noah’s birth was like the classic textbook birth—perfect in
every way (but definitely not to be confused with painless)! Although I had already gone through labor
with Judah, I still had no idea what to expect with Noah as Judah’s birth was
induced. This time, my body did it all
on its own—from start to finish—and it was awesome (but again, definitely not
to be confused with painless).
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| Me and Judah on the day Noah was born--Judah's last day of being my one and only. |
After lumbering around like a giant ogre for 2 weeks, my
cervix was still only 0.5 cm dilated on Noah’s due date. Argh. I
forced myself to take a 45 minute walk (despite a persistent pain in my right
hip due to bursitis) the day Noah was born, hoping that would help jump start my
labor—guess that worked!
Around 3 pm my body evacuated all the food in my tummy to
make way for the baby (it was not pretty, let’s just leave it at that). Around 6 pm my mucus plug completely fell out
and I had bloody show. And around 9 pm I
felt my first crampy contractions. At
first they were mildly uncomfortable and pretty far apart—15 min, 12 min,
etc. But by 10:30 pm they were
definitely getting into a good 7-8 min pattern.
Of course my first thought was—oh crap, I just put my
toddler down for bedtime! I’d hate to
wake him up on a midnight run to the hospital (40 min away) only to have the
nurses tell me to go home cuz it was false labor. The logistics of labor are infinitely more
annoying with a toddler in tow!
So I called the OB on duty and she told me (and I quote)—Okay,
you don’t want to come in and get checked?
Then you can just have your husband deliver your baby!
I responded with annoyed silence for about 10 seconds. Man, OB’s can be cranky and sarcastic. I prayed that she wouldn’t be the one to
deliver my baby (spoiler alert—she was!)
When the contractions got to be very consistently 5 min
apart at 11 pm, I told my spouse that it’s show-time. Operation Deliver Noah was officially
underway. Go! Go!
Go! (Yes, I talk to him like we’re
on a SWAT team).
We finished packing our half-packed bags, dropped our sleepy
toddler off at his old nanny’s house (an hour away) and swung back to the
hospital around midnight. My doula (aka
labor coach) came in while I was in triage and I waited forever for the nurse
to come and check my cervix. At around 3
am someone FINALLY checked me only to find that I was a disappointing 2-3
cm. Only?! What?!
Before I go on, let me say a word about doulas. Doulas are awesome. If you want to attempt an all-natural,
epidural-free birth, I kinda think they are indispensable. My first doula was super experienced and the crème
de la crème of doulas (read: I paid a buttload of money for her services). I really didn’t think she did that much for
me so this time I decided to cheap out and hire a massage therapist who aspired
to be a doula but has never been hired by anyone for that purpose (read: I paid
¼ of what I did for my first one). I
figured the thing I wanted most during labor was someone to massage me and give
me pressure at the right points anyway, so might as well hire a massage
therapist!
In the end, I realize there still is value in hiring a very
experienced doula. Sure it’s much more
expensive but she will be able to coach you through a lot more verbally and
knows different positions you can try out to help the labor along. Although I got an awesome 7 hour massage from
my 2nd doula, she really couldn’t help me with pain management in
any other way and her lack of birthing knowledge almost caused me to have the
baby on the floor without the doctor present!
More on that later.
Anyway, from about 3 am to 5 am my contractions started to
get a lot more painful—probably an 8 or 9 on a pain scale of 1-10. Whatever jokey, smiley disposition I had was
quickly eroding and I was starting to get really worried that I wouldn’t have
the energy to push this baby out after pulling an all-nighter. I was getting really tired. Tired of the whole darn thing.
When I asked them to check me at 5 am, it was REALLY
disappointing—just 4 cm! All that time
and pain and I had only progressed one measly cm. (Btw, for those who don’t know—10 cm is the
magic number when the cervix opens enough that you can actually start pushing
the baby out).
But I was a little heartened by the fact that last time, it
only took me 3 hours to go from 4 cm to 10 cm.
So maybe this time, it would also go quickly now that I had reached a
solid 4 cm. And I was right. From that point on, everything took off like
gangbusters.
The contractions started
coming on stronger and faster—every 30 seconds one of those mofos would rip
through me like a bat out of hell and send me whimpering and begging for mercy
from the blinding pain. On a pain scale
of 1-10 I’d put them at…oh, about a 20.
After a couple of these bad boys I was pretty much ready to
throw in the towel and get me a freaking epidural. As I said during labor (my last semi-witty
remark before I lost all sense of humor)—sh*t just got real people. But some masochistic part of me kept saying—one
more. Just one more. If I can just hold out for 2 hours, maybe
that’s all I need for my cervix to reach 10 cm.
Just 15 more minutes.
The first hour was hell.
Each time a contraction came I felt like a very small child facing a
rising tsunami of pain head on. There is
nowhere to hide. There is nowhere to run. The only way through it is, well…through
it. Right down the middle of the line of
fire.
And that tsunami came and came and came. Every time it crashed over my head, wracking
me with unspeakable torturous pain, I vowed—never again. This is for SURE the last time I’m ever going
through labor without pain meds. The
motto of the Jewish holocaust rang in my head the whole time—NEVER AGAIN! But I believe my exact words, each time, was—F*CK! F*CK! F*CK! F*CK! F*********CK!
(which is the only time I’m allowed to swear near the spouse's sensitive ears).
And then 2 hours went by and my urge to push became
unstoppable. Typically you shouldn’t
push until the nurse checks you and says that your cervix is dilated enough to
start pushing. But my stupid labor nurse
kept repeating her uninformed mantra to me—if you don’t feel pressure all the
time then you’re not ready to push. That’s
pure b.s. People, never fall for that. I felt pressure only when I had a contraction
and believe me, IT WAS TIME TO PUSH.
The nurse refused to check me even though I told her IT’S
TIME TO PUSH LADY. I guess she didn’t
believe that I could go from 4 to 10 cm in just 2 hours. Anyway, at some point your body doesn’t care
what medical professionals say—it’s just going to do what it was designed to
do. And I was involuntarily pushing hard
with each contraction.
After a couple of those hard pushes I remember yelling—I NEED
TO GET ON THE BED! NOW! (I had been sitting on an exercise ball the
whole time cuz it felt better to be vertical).
But suddenly I could feel something different—like a little head making
its way down the pipeline.
And then that silly nurse came and took one look at the head
coming down the pipeline and said—whoah, baby’s comin’! WE NEED A DOCTOR NOW! Five more minutes and 3 more good pushes later,
baby was out for good.
Of course those last 3 pushes were accompanied by the
longest most inhuman screams that ever erupted from the depths of my being, but
finally, it was over. It was all
blessedly over.
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| That my friends is the look of pure relief. |
And there was my squirmy little creature, who looked
shockingly like his older brother at the same moment in time. My perfect, red-faced, hairy little creature.
And now, writing this account a week later from the comfort
of my own home. I’m starting to
forget. Was the pain really that
bad? Was it really all that awful? Would I really never do it again?
How quickly bad gives way to good.
How wholly is pain swallowed up by joy.
How easily we forget momentary
afflictions in the face of lasting glory.
