Every Monday night since my third trimester began, I have gone through the same ritual: run a warm bath, listen to a mindfulness audio track, read a chapter or two of a hypnobirthing textbook, and yell future parenting philosophies down at Gordon from our bathroom. For months I’ve pleaded with him to study hypnobirthing and meditation and intervention-free labour approaches. He dutifully attended all the classes, but stopped short of doing the class homework. I’d never skip the homework.
Even with all the early baby prep and planning, I’m trying to remind myself to be ready to abandon it all in the name of pain management. It’s hard; I’d rather stick to my plan, whatever my plan is now. Through all of my planning I never once worked through a rushed vaginal breech delivery attempt days before a scheduled C-section.
I’m frantically looking around the hospital lobby for information about the labour and delivery floor, genuinely confused about where to go because we opted out of the hospital tour. We opted out of almost all medical intervention training and preparation, because after reading Ina May Gaskin’s childbirth stories and watching Ricki Lake’s documentary The Business of Being Born, Gordon and I convinced ourselves we wouldn’t be “one of those families” caught up in the medical system if we didn’t need to be.
We are in the medical system now whether I want to be or not. The doors open to the fifteenth floor. Rose greets us in the hallway, then runs me into triage like I’m bleeding to death. My adrenalin spikes. Dr. Skylar appears in front of us not five minutes later, a stout woman with thick metal eyeglasses and short spiky hair that matches her sharp tone. She instantly straps a heart monitor on my belly and sets up the ultrasound equipment with very little fanfare.
She barely says hello, only “this will only work if baby is in the exact position, and if your cervix has effaced enough that vaginal delivery is a possibility. I don’t want you to get your hopes up.” I look to Gordon, who looks a little dazed. How did we get here? What does she mean by “this will work”?
The latex glove snaps and within seconds Dr. Skylar’s hands are inside me. She says, “Yep, it looks like you’re going to have a baby soon. Let’s do the stretch and sweep.” Is she asking me for permission? It doesn’t sound like she’s asking me for permission. Isn’t this exactly what Gordon and I feared would happen, that doctors would take control of my birth story and I’d be left to follow along? I haven’t the faintest idea what a stretch and sweep is, but I find out really quickly when this new doctor’s hand suddenly puts pressure on my cervix. I look over to my engineer husband, who is standing at the foot of the bed, checking his phone with a worried look on his face. I know he’s looking up “stretch and sweep.” I wish we could pause for a moment and have someone, anyone, explain what is going on with this baby. I don’t feel calm or happy; I feel worry.
The lights in this triage area are bright. I hear a woman scream, maybe a few rooms over from where we are. I’m so focused on the uncomfortable “contraction inducing” procedure happening between my legs that I haven’t taken much time to reflect on where I am. I’m on the labour and delivery ward of a hospital, preparing to deliver my first child. There are women in serious pain here, I realize. What’s next for me?
Dr. Skylar has two fingers inside my vagina and she pushes with a force that is sharp but direct, and I now understand the use of the word stretch. The sweep in this procedure, however, is unfairly named. When I think of sweeping I think light, airy, floating. Two strong fingers pushing against my internal organs couldn’t be further from floating. Or painless. This hurts like hell, so I let out a low moan. Rose tells me not to pull away from the pain.
“Breathe, Amanda, breathe.”
I’m annoyed that she isn’t concerned about my discomfort. I wish she would walk over here and hold my hand. I also wish Gordon could understand how uncomfortable this is; he seems more concerned with his phone than my cervix.
The procedure is over and the heart monitor comes off. Dr. Skylar tells me to stand up and head to the washroom to put on a pair of postpartum underwear. Postpartum underwear is made of thin, white bandage mesh that reminds me of that membrane they wrap around raw meat. Caul fat? What a strange way to stir up a baby, then strap my body parts into place. I feel crampy. I’m also worried because I’m supposed to do some work today. There are voices of panic swirling inside my head, concerned by all this medical attention — something could go wrong … you could die today. It’s unusual for me to have thoughts like this; it’s unusual for me not to trust my own thinking as anything other than logical and fair. I’ve barely spent any time in a hospital and always considered myself lucky for not needing medication to deal with my occasional anxiety. I normally feel pretty stable, able to look at anxious thoughts as separate from reality. This morning the thoughts seem more present, more real, not detachable.
I need to be on a work call by 12:00 p.m. Now that the stretch and sweep induction act is complete, I pull up the caul-fat underwear and ask, “Can we go home now?” Dr. Skylar asks Gordon and me to return to her office tomorrow morning at eight o’clock “if you haven’t had a baby by then.” She’ll do another stretch and sweep if we need to. I’ll be prepared for this next time, I think.
Gordon decides to take me home and head off to work himself. He’ll work the first half of the week at his tech start-up as planned. He’s scheduled to begin a paternity leave in two days, so if I can hold off on delivering a baby until then, it’ll give him time to wrap up a project he’s in the middle of. He doesn’t seem overly concerned that I’m going to have a baby today, and I want to follow his lead and go back to thinking about my work projects. Anxiety tries to creep in; I push it away.
In my bathroom I notice that I’m bleeding. That’s a lot of blood for a pregnant woman. It’s been more than nine months since I’ve had my period, the longest I’ve gone without bleeding monthly since I was eleven years old. I vividly remember when I got my first period. I told my mother that I wanted to get pregnant right then so I could have relief from the blood and cramps. I’ll never forget her response: “You don’t want to get pregnant, because after you have the baby you’ll bleed for six straight months.”
Am I going to bleed for six consecutive months? Will these cramps be with me for just as long? It’s June 16. That would have me bleeding heavily until after Christmas.
The bleeding is jarring but the cramps have faded, so I decide to return to my planned work, which might be a good distraction. I told my digital marketing clients that I would finish weeks ago, but my constant need to please has me agreeing to show up for conference calls when I’m supposed to have already begun maternity leave. I’ve done more stressful work tasks than this. It won’t take much time at all, I tell myself, and I don’t even have to mention the contractions. I need to continue to be viewed as a top-performing employee.
I send Gordon a text update:
I’m feeling contractions and there is blood. It’s probably OK, I’m not in a lot of pain.
My husband is the one you want to be there for you in a crisis. One of the things I disliked about him when we started dating in university was his stoic lack of emotion. But that rational being is now what grounds me in times of stress. I look to him for stability and evaluate his reaction before levelling up my own panic. In a crisis Gordon finds the most logical explanation, approaching my concerns with as much rational sense as he can muster. At times I long for him to yell at me, to respond to my emotional outbursts with some demonstrated passion. I’ve been known to say outrageous things just to elicit an emotional response from him, though it rarely works. He remains calm and judicious in almost any scen-ario. I want to let Gordon own this labour and give myself over to his lead. As I’m working on my emails, my phone beeps and my heart flutters a bit when I read the text from him:
I’m coming home. I feel useless at work. Let’s do this.
An hour after my text, Gordon walks in the door, convinced that “contractions” means baby. He looks exuberant, with bright eyes a
nd a warm smile.
He walks over to me, lifts me up to a hug, and says, “We’re having a baby today? Maybe?”
I giggle and he laughs. He smells deliciously salty from the early summer heat.
“Why don’t we go for a walk and shake that baby around a bit?” he says. “That’s probably the easiest way to get the baby out, yes?” He’s full of silliness this afternoon, a lot less worried than he seemed this morning. I don’t sense any nervousness from him, which is good because my worry is growing.
“A walk sounds great,” I say. “I’m not getting anything done here anyway. Looks like that call was my last for a while.”
The natural, intimate birth we planned is in sight again, and I want every part of this to be a quiet experience for him and me. I want to smell him, touch his hair, have him rub his hands over my bulging belly. I want him to feel the tightening contractions with me. I want us to do this together.
As we walk to the park we chat about how devastated I’ve been for the last week since Rose told me we’d be having a Caesarean delivery instead of a vaginal birth. It’s not that I’m morally against the C-section, or have any strong feelings one way or another about vaginal versus surgical birth, but I’m upset that we’ve been so far off plan. I hate being off plan.
I should probably be thinking about the baby’s arrival or the imminent pain, but all that’s running through my mind is the amazing shared experience that my husband and I are about to have, and how great it is that our original birth plan could be back on track. I am in love with my husband. I love his dark hair and brown eyes and tall presence. I really want to make this birth a positive experience for him. We were told that because of the baby’s breech position, I’d be heading into surgery this week. Instead we’re back to thinking about labour breathing and pushing and meditative pain management. We are back to our original “organic” delivery plan.
And yet, as relieved I am that we can carry out the delivery we imagined, I feel a deep unease about the shifting circumstances.
June 17, 2014
TODAY COULD BE our birth day. I couldn’t sleep last night, so I’m awake and raring to go when the alarm goes off at 7:00 a.m. This time as we head to the hospital I’m feeling a lot more calm about our commute, though we take the same congested route we did yesterday. We head up the elevator to find many very pregnant birthers sitting in Dr. Skylar’s waiting room. My name is called. The doctor performs a second, mercifully less painful stretch and sweep on me, then announces, “This baby will be here by six p.m.” Her tone makes her sound so confident, like this is more fact than prediction.
I hop off the examination table and get dressed. Gordon suggests we try to have an early lunch. “Let’s get ramen noodles since we’re downtown. I know a great place. We have until six before the baby shows up, right?”
“That sounds lovely — I’d love a lunch date with you,” says me, the twice-internally-“swept,” thirty-nine-weeks-pregnant, officially-in-labour mother-to-be. I smile and wrap an arm around his waist. As we head out of the building, I notice a few other pregnant women heading into their Dr. Skylar appointments; they’re dressed professionally, likely headed to work after their quick check-ups. Today isn’t about their baby, it’s about mine, I think. I’m having a baby by 6:00 p.m. today.
The energy swirling around me this morning is nervous excitement. Happy anxiety. Curiosity. It’s that same feeling you get when you skip out early from high school to make out with your love in the back parking lot. It could be great and it could all fall apart. I’ve decided not to send a message to any of my family members because I selfishly want this experience to be for our marriage alone. It is unusual for me not to at least send a quick text to my brother, Max, the person I too often joke is more important to me than my husband. But I know he’ll worry about me, and he doesn’t thrive in ambiguous situations.
It’s 10:00 a.m. on Tuesday. We walk through a nearby mall, then go outside to Nathan Phillips Square where we sit down on a bench in front of a big water fountain. The few people wandering around appear to be jet-lagged tourists. We watch a few of them take selfies in front of city hall while pigeons circle around an older woman eating a bagel. I look up to the bright blue sky, grateful for the delicious breeze. The sun on my face feels nice. It really is a beautiful day. In this moment, I’m not checking my cellphone, looking at unread emails, or posting to Facebook or Twitter. I’m simply a very pregnant person sitting on a bench beside my husband, thinking about how warm and sunny it is outside. Gordon pulls out his phone and launches an app to begin timing my contractions.
He’s looking around in a distracted way that tells me he has a lot running through his mind. His calm demeanour is replaced with tension that lingers at the end of every sentence. He moves his hand through his thick brown hair and shuffles from side to side on the concrete bench. He sees me watching him. Suddenly he’s peppering me with questions: “Are you feeling anything? Is this the start of a contraction? Is this the end of one? What about now? How do you feel now? And what about now?”
I find his persistent tone a little annoying, but mostly endearing. I love the energy he’s putting into this early labour experience. The short spaces between his questions tell me he wants to be a part of this baby’s birth, even though it’s me who has to endure most of what’s needed to get this baby out. If he’s worried it means he’s feeling protective over the baby. I want him to feel connected to his child, even before it arrives. I’ve been carrying so much of the parent-child relationship so far, and I’d like him to join me. He moves his hand to my belly and holds it there, counting the seconds softly.
“Two minutes since the last one, right? But the one before that was seven minutes apart?” He makes a note of the inconsistency in his contraction app. I want to focus on the experience of being outside and ignore the rumbling cramps in my abdomen. It doesn’t hurt, but it doesn’t feel nice. It’s a low, pulling cramp and a signal that something important is happening inside me. It’s the anticipation of a contraction that makes me anxious. Will the next one hurt worse than that one? Was that a contraction or a cramp? Is this pain really going to double? I exhale. Remember this moment, I tell myself. Remember the blue tones in the sky so I can tell baby about it one day: the day you arrived.
The tightening continues. My contractions are now seven or eight minutes apart. We were taught in prenatal classes not to worry until the contractions are less than five minutes apart, but I get the feeling we’re close enough to active labour that I probably shouldn’t still be standing outside in a public area. It’s time to get moving. I don’t know how long these contractions will stay this distance apart. Hours?
I look to my husband with his shifting eyes and quiet counting. “How about that ramen lunch?” I ask. “I’m hungry. Warm, spicy noodles sound amazing.” It’s a good time to start walking, because my cramping has increased. We stroll up a wide ramp to a second-floor outdoor platform that overlooks the square.
“Wouldn’t it be funny if the baby fell out right here?” I joke. He stops short of a full laugh, sighing and asking me again how bad the cramps are.
These moments are more amusing than difficult, more expansive than contracting. I need frequent breaks as we walk through city hall. I sigh a little loudly, in full view of the city workers moving to and from meetings. Releasing a big loud “ahhh” feels good, a message to the baby that I’m here for this, too. It helps if I lean over to ease the pressure in my abdomen. I press my palms against a concrete wall and sway back and forth. Since my baby is in a breech position and its head is lodged under my rib cage, my breathing is shallow and brief, exhales coming out as sighs and soft cries.
Gordon is staring at me with fear and uncertainty. “Okay,” he says, “I think it would be best if we don’t go out for lunch. It sounds like your breathing is speeding up. Maybe the ramen noodle place is too far. We should head back closer to the hospital; what do you think?”
“No, not yet, please,” I plead. They�
�re not five minutes apart. This baby isn’t arriving until 6:00 p.m., according to our new doctor. It’s not yet lunchtime. And I’m feeling more and more uneasy about checking myself into the hospital. There’s less air in a hospital. I want to stand in the bright sun a little longer. Is this what labour feels like? I remember a friend once told me that the reason pregnant birthers wake up so often during the night in the last weeks of pregnancy is that nature is preparing them for sleep deprivation. Is my desire to stay outside a signal that my brain is preparing for something bad? Maybe I’m going to die today.
Somewhere between city hall and the hospital, my contractions begin to get much worse. The stretching and sweeping has done the job and this baby is definitely stirring. I picture the baby kicking furiously, sort of like running in air, with its head stuck in a vise. The pain leans into my cervix, a strong pressure that sends a terrible ache into my lower back. It’s hard to walk, and although the hospital is less than five hundred metres from the square, it takes us quite a long time to trek back.
Back on the labour and delivery floor, I look a nurse directly in the eyes and say, “This baby is coming.”
She moves fast and guides me to the delivery room, not stopping to ask any details about me or my birthing plan. Gordon stays back to complete some paperwork and I get undressed in the delivery room. Since I’m all the way up on the fifteenth floor, I have a good view out my windows, looking out on the city’s east end. The bright room has plenty of space to move around. It reminds me of the parts of Toronto in summer I love most. I climb onto a hospital bed with thick plastic handles and settle onto my back, shuffling pillows down my sides and behind my neck. With a quick knock, another nurse walks into the room.
“Hello! Are you Amanda? And who is this?” she says, looking behind her. Gordon has followed her into our room looking like he full-on ran from the check-in desk. I appreciate the hustle. He stands near the door as the nurse begins to work around me. I wish he would stand a little closer to the bed, to me. I wish he was holding my hand instead of observing from the back of this big room. I’m lonely in this bed, just baby and me. The nurse lifts my torso and shifts me forward in the bed to strap fetal heart and contraction monitors to my belly. That’s the second time this week I’ve been strapped in.
Day Nine Page 2