Baby #3 Birth Story

I Get By with a Little Help from My Friends: A Birth Story

I should be reluctant to admit I’ve been in the ladies’ rooms of many bars, clubs, and other venues where alcohol flows freely. If you’ve been in similar settings, you know those ladies’ rooms are filled with women of varying degrees of sobriety. If you’ve been in similar settings, you also have had the experiences that led me to conclude that drunk women in bar bathrooms are in a class entirely unto themselves.

Female camaraderie is at its finest in public bathrooms late at night. There’s a fierce, elemental embrace of sisterhood behind those doors, a sense of intrinsic communion that seems to transcend economic or racial or language differences. Bar bathrooms are routinely filled with complete strangers offering the most extravagant compliments to other women, asking where to find that top or that lipstick. I’ve witnessed multitudes of women willing to spare their last hair tie or a tampon (or a square, contrary to Elaine Benes’ experience). On a less superficial level, I’ve been parts of groups that circle around a crying woman, sharing hugs, confidently assuring them it’s HIS LOSS, boldly offering to go inflict bodily harm on the guy... all for a complete stranger.

I was never a “girls’ girl,” despite the fact I attended an all-girls high school and an (coincidentally) all-female undergraduate nursing program. Truthfully, I always felt my complete immersion in the world of women was the reason I preferred the company of guys. I had seen the competition, the cattiness, the cliques for which women are stereotypically known and it intimidated me. So I gravitated to having more friendships with guys in my late teens and early twenties.

It wasn’t until I got married and most of my alleged guy friends disappeared that I realized perhaps their motives hadn’t been the same as mine. By my early thirties, I had the benefit of amazing, drama-free, supportive female friends. Knowing them enabled me to embrace sisterhood and proudly become a “girls’ girl” who understands that women can empower and love each other without being drunk in a bar bathroom.

Which leads me to my story that best exemplifies women empowering other women in drunk-girl-in-a-bar-bathroom fashion... the birth story of my third child. (Heads up: There was no bathroom or alcohol involved in this birth, so you should stop reading this now if that is a dealbreaker.)

My third child was due on November 30, but I wasn’t actually expecting the baby to come until after 40 weeks. Neither my mom, my sister, nor I had ever given birth spontaneously prior to 41 weeks (at the earliest). I had contractions around the 40 week mark (some pretty regular!) but I didn’t go into labor until 40 weeks and four days.

My husband, Nate, and I recently had moved about 45 minutes away from the hospital where we’d be delivering. My midwives stressed how important it was for me to leave for the hospital right away when I went into legit labor because my second baby’s birth had been relatively quick. (Her labor was five hours long, from first contraction to baby in my arms. Two and a half hours of that was pushing because she turned occiput posterior, or OP, during labor and was born facing “sunny side up.”) My midwives speculated that, if my daughter hadn’t flipped OP during labor, the whole thing would have only been around two and a half hours long. They suggested my third baby’s birth could go even more quickly, and they didn’t want us to deal with our child being born in a car.

In the early evening of December 4, a Friday, I was having contractions again and had a feeling real labor would start soon. So, around 10 p.m., we called the wonderful friend who had agreed to be on-call to watch the older kids when we went to the hospital. After she and her husband arrived, Nate and I left, per midwife instructions, even though my contractions were still pretty manageable.

We made it to the hospital a little before 11:00 and went upstairs to L & D. A nurse checked my dilation (I truly don’t remember where I was, but it was pretty unremarkable, like 1 cm). She advised we walk around for a bit to get contractions to pick up, which turned out to be a really fantastic suggestion.

Nate and I walked outside to the Mediation Garden, which was decorated with lights for Christmas. The air was so clear. It felt so special to spend that time with Nate, walking through the Christmas lights and talking.

After the suggested hour of walking, we returned to L & D. My contractions were unchanged and my dilation was still unimpressive, so the nurse informed me that I couldn’t be admitted. Nate and I decided to make the drive back home and see if labor picked up later.

We got home around 2 a.m. I decided to take a bath to relax for a bit, since my contractions had gotten a little more intense on the drive back home. Almost immediately after I filled the bath and got in, my contractions were noticeably stronger and closer together. I don’t know how to explain it other than to say the intensity ramped up quite a bit, so Nate and I headed back to the hospital again around 3:00.

On the drive there, I felt best on my hands and knees, so I hovered that way in the backseat of my minivan. I asked Nate to play some of my motivating labor music from my phone. I remember him playing “All my Life” by Foo Fighters, and he joked it was a perfect song for contractions when the line “Done, done, on to the next one” came on.

We went back through the ED of the hospital. The same nurse at the admission desk was there from earlier, and he remarked, “Now, this looks more like labor” compared to my earlier visit. We went up to L & D again. My water broke in the elevator and I was really struggling to get through each contraction.

I was admitted this time. When I remember that night, I consider “hard labor” started around 4 a.m., meaning the contractions were intense beyond what I would consider “manageable.”

My plan was to have another unmedicated birth, since my previous one had been a really positive experience for me.  I had the same doula as with my second baby, but I hadn’t done much in the way of preparing by doing Hypnobabies, Spinning Babies, or Birthing from Within during this pregnancy. In retrospect, I believe the relatively smooth birth of my second child made me complacent for the birth of my third.

As I recall, by about 8:00 a.m. I was overwhelmed and decided to request an epidural. I suspect my lack of mental preparation for the birth process may have been a misstep on my part. I hadn’t done any of the prep I did for my second baby’s birth, and the difference was significant in my ability to tolerate the pain. Anesthesiology came and inserted my epidural. It wasn’t effective until he “topped me off.” After that, I was gloriously numb.

The problem, though, is that I have low blood pressure at baseline. The medications in my epidural caused my blood pressure to drop even more. Therefore, in the following hours, my nurse bolused me with IV fluids and put me in Trendelenburg position (me flat on my back with my feet elevated higher than my head) several times and, at one point, expressed her surprise that I was still conscious and coherent. I never asked what my actual blood pressure was because I didn’t want to know. Nate was dozing on the couch and I remember feeling glad he didn’t know what was happening because I didn’t want to scare him.

My midwife commented that, in her experience, baby girls “behave well” during labor and delivery and baby boys are more troublesome. Since my baby was tolerating labor very well, she predicted my baby was a girl.

Around noon, I was fully dilated and started pushing. I changed positions several times and pushed with all my might, to no avail. By around 2 p.m., the baby’s heart rate had started to show decelerations on the fetal monitor. That, coupled with my own low blood pressure, resulted in the nurses and my doula constantly flipping me from side to side, applying an oxygen mask, and appearing subtly anxious as time wore on. (The midwife wryly observed around this time, “I changed my mind. This baby must be a boy.”)

The midwife sat on the edge of my bed and I could tell a serious conversation was about to happen. She expressed her concerns with the decelerations and the lack of progress we’d made. I quickly agreed to sign the consent forms for a cesarean delivery, since all the activity of the past few hours had me concerned for the well-being of the baby. The obstetrician came in at that time.

Even though I’d never met that doctor, I was expecting a quick trip to the OR for surgery. My experiences with the physicians at my OBGYN practice had never been positive. I perceived the ones I met as dismissive, rushed, and focused on their own goals. I couldn’t imagine this doctor would do anything but take me in for a c-section and be done with me.

The doctor did an exam and informed me that my baby had turned OP. This was a surprise; we had been paying attention to positioning during pregnancy and the baby was OA at all my late-pregnancy appointments. She felt that this, in addition to the fact that the baby’s head was de-flexed, was prohibiting the baby from advancing.

I was exhausted from pushing, disheartened, and had accepted the idea of a cesarean birth by then. The obstetrician, however, asked if I would be willing to let her attempt to manually reposition the baby first. I agreed, and I remember being grateful then for the epidural, because I could feel, to some degree, what she was doing (even with the benefit of my epidural). I’m fairly confident that procedure would have been pretty unpleasant without it.

Her attempt wasn’t successful. She next proposed trying the vacuum. My recollection of this time is somewhat hazy, but from what I remember, the purpose was to try to get the baby to tuck its chin so I could push it out. On the first try, I was told the suction device popped off the baby’s head. On the second try, the doctor informed me the baby tucked its chin. (I’m truly sorry that I’m not sure if I remember these details accurately. All I know is that I was told the baby tucked its chin at this time and we stopped using the vacuum. I don’t know enough about labor and delivery to know the purpose of the vacuum or if the procedure worked as intended.)

I remember pushing mightily. The kind of pushing that left all kinds of broken blood vessels in my face. The muscles in my legs were shaking from exertion and I was exhausted. Over and over, I would push, the fetal monitor would alarm, I’d quickly get flipped on my side and have an oxygen mask applied, then I’d start pushing again. I was anxious about my baby’s health and my own. I remember telling the team in my room, “I don’t think I can do this. If the baby is in danger, I’m ok with a c-section.”

I had not been surprised by the supportive cheering from my husband, my doula, my midwife, and my nurse. I had expected the litany of affirmations they offered and their reassurances that I was still amazing, even if I wasn’t able to deliver this baby vaginally. What did surprise me, though, was the tiny, gentle doctor who spoke up at my weakest moment. I remember it so clearly. She looked me in the eye and said, “You've done this before. I think you can push this baby out.” This, from the last person I’d expected to support me in anything except a cesarean.

Her simple words completely elevated me. That easily, my insecurity and anxiety dissipated and I started pushing with renewed energy. Everyone else in the room seemed to sense the shift that had occurred. As I remember it, their cheering took on the rowdy air of celebration. After one push, my midwife actually uttered the words, “Jill, you’re a beast.” (An accompanying fist bump would have been appropriate, but I think I was being repositioned on my side at the time, so I’ll forgive her.)

With this team of sisters (and my mister) rallying around me, I pushed my third child into the world at 2:25 p.m. on Saturday, December 5, 2015. He was facing the ceiling like his sister before him.

I didn’t cry when my first two kids were born. I expected to, considering one was my first child and one was a much-desired, successful VBAC delivery. But tears didn’t come when they were born.

So you can probably imagine my surprise when this third baby, later named James MacLean, arrived and I started sobbing. I was completely, incoherently overcome with humility and gratitude that the team around me had carried me through my self-doubt. I couldn’t believe their faith in me had culminated in the miracle of this person on my chest. I think they were touched, too; Nate told me later the nurses were crying with me.

Mac had some trouble breathing at first. His Apgar scores weren’t great and he was taken away from me so the pediatric nurses could care for him. I was told he would be going to the nursery for a bit for monitoring, but he perked up and ended up staying with me, fortunately.

I would be remiss if I didn’t mention the crucial role my husband played in this story. He is a constant source of love and support in my life and this event was no exception. Among this team of empowering women, he was an honorary sister (and I hope he wouldn’t be offended by that description in this context!).

So, that's the story. In the spirit of the bar bathroom references, I’d like to offer a toast to the people who were with me during Mac’s birth. Here’s to the sisters (and misters) who readily sing to us the anthem of our greatness in the moments we don’t remember it for ourselves. Here’s to the ones whose unwavering faith in us becomes an instrument of energy, of confidence, during our weakest times. Here’s to the people who make it abundantly clear we’ll never walk alone.

I didn’t walk alone on the day Mac came into this world, and I have so much to show for that team effort... A triple-dimple charmer with blond curls, Vito Corleone cheeks, and big blue eyes. (He's so darn cute I'll go ahead and forgive him for breaking my tailbone on his way out.) Here’s to him becoming a person who encourages and loves others so well, in the legacy of the people who supported his arrival. Here’s to James Maclean!