Alistair Douglas – November 11, 1990

First there were the contractions – mostly irritating, as I’d had “false” ones on and off for a month. They were fairly strong, as most of them for the past week had been; and out of habit I kept glancing at the clock, trying to time them. Irregular. As I thought they’d be.

David had brought Willie over to visit and I decided to get a couple of movies to watch while Susan was doing her usual Saturday night out, so the four of us went to Brookneal to the video place. The contractions were fairly steady but I paid little attention except to note that they were still strong, even slightly more so as I walked around. As we went to get frozen yogurt and on home, David teased me about having the baby that night – “seeing it in my face” as I looked at the clock, he said. I snorted and denied it, as usual – I told him I wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of knowing he was right if I was having contractions!

Susan and I watched the first movie together after David left: an obscure Israeli film, set post-WWI and pre-WWII. (How did that one wind up at the Brookneal store??) A deep, broody film – the type I find I’ve acquired a taste for – but I couldn’t concentrate as well as I would have liked because the contractions were still coming and had unsettled me. Susan asked me repeatedly afterwards if she should still go out; did I want her to stay, just in case. I told her no, of course not, that our usual precaution of leaving her phone number where she’d be would be fine. So she went, and I sat in the rocking chair and worked a while on Dick Francis’ Hot Money. As last I put it down and went to bed, 10-ish.

I could feel the contractions continuing while I slept. The last few woke me briefly and I would glance at the clock – eight minutes apart! At about 11:30 I was wrenched fully awake; and wrapping up in my robe, I rose to pace the trailer, end to end.
They had been steadily five minutes apart for almost an hour when Susan returned home. Though I tried to be calm, my excitement was irrepressible – FINALLY, I thought, they’re regular! And morning was four, five hours away! Anything could happen in that time.

We arrived at the hospital and I was settled into a room, attached to a monitor and given an initial exam. Four centimeters dilated! The baby’s heartrate was fine and all seemed to be well. We called Juanita, the student nurse assigned me as I had volunteered to be a “case study” for a local L&D nursing program. She was still up (at 3 AM) doing a paper and came as soon as she could.

Then came the hours of waiting – I was checked half-hourly and walked in between times, floating on a cloud of adrenaline-induced euphoria that this was it! Susan napped in my room’s huge cushioned rocker while Juanita walked with me. The contractions; more often now I had to pause and lean against a wall to concentrate on my breathing. Irrationally, the only pattern that seemed to help was one I had practiced the least. Juanita rubbed my back comfortingly.

5:30 AM – I was checked again and had dilated to five. Up for more walking; this time Susan came, too. I found myself running the gamut of emotion – now came a stab of uncontrolled fear as I realized, yes, this is it: no turning back. I will have this baby, no matter what. (I thought of Ransom in C.S. Lewis’ Perelandra: his struggle over knowing he had to kill Weston. He realized that whether he kicked and fought the idea, or accepted it, it would happen, either way.) My most difficult thing to deal with so far had been starting the heparin lock in my arm. I had wanted to completely avoid those hated needles – but Dr. Baker had “encouraged” me to consider the heparin lock as a “comfortable compromise” with the routine IV. So I agreed. But the first attempt to insert one was abortive; the nurse was young and unskilled at it and overshot the vein. Major pain. They let me wait a few hours before trying on the other arm; I repeatedly told Juanita how much I dreaded it. She was not allowed to tell me at the time, so I learned later, that I could have refused it altogether. The second attempt was successful, though painful and I nearly squeezed Juanita’s hand off.

By this time we had called everyone that needed to know. I had waited till daylight, at least, to get in touch with Troy. He called back (from the Coys’ house) and managed to infiltrate L&D at the hospital; I took his call at the front desk just as I was setting out for another walk. By this time my adrenaline was getting thin indeed and I was going more on willpower than anything. At my 8:00 check I’d dilated to seven but my contractions stayed at an average of three minutes apart. The baby was still fine so there was no reason not to allow the labor to continue naturally. I walked as often as I could bear, for I was beginning to tire. My nurse, Michelle, seemed to approve of my progress – or at least my attitude – and was generous in keeping me supplied with something to drink. Susan read the Psalms at one point; Juanita was quiet but always solicitous of my comfort.

I had learned that the doctor on call was Dr. Cook – the same who had delivered my friend Lisa’s baby, Alyssa. I was pleased that it wouldn’t be Dr. Bowden, my own OB’s partner – Dr. Cook was definitely more receptive to my preferences and discussed my birth plan with me when he first came to check on me after coming on duty. Later we met him in the hallway on one of our walks; he was returning to L&D with his lunch and gave me an encouraging word as he went by. I replied that yes, but I had been stuck at seven centimeters for four or five hours. He paused and assured me that after he’d finished lunch, he would be back to look in on me and break my water to speed things up.

So now I had this, too, to think about. It was early afternoon and I sat rocking because I was too tired to walk. Shortly after, they gave me a different nurse because Michelle was needed for a more critical labor; Michelle checked me the last time in the rocking chair. [She commented that it was nice to see someone who didn’t think having a baby was an illness – unfortunately things were going to change.] The pains had slowed – probably to at least four minutes – but were harder to tolerate. I knew they’d be more intense once he broke my water and I decided to ask for pain meds. I was so tired.

Michelle popped in once to apologize for the delay … it would be still later, she explained, before Dr. Cook could return to break my water, as there was an emergency c-section to do. I remember the sympathy on his face when he did come and agreed to the meds.

The next few hours were very hazy. I remember isolated events, but not their sequence; was it before or after they administered the Stadol that he came to actually break my water? I remember being put to bed (where I would have to stay after the amniotomy was done), and the new nurse inserting the needle into the valve on the heparin lock. (I don’t think she ever addressed me directly; Juanita later told me she was angered by overhearing the nurse’s opinion that I’d have to go by c-section.) And I turned toward Susan, where she sat on the other side of my bed, put my hand on her shoulder, and was gone.

I didn’t exactly sleep; I could still feel the contractions and could breathe with them. I have the memory of the doctor performing the amniotomy: the gush of fluid, almost hot, around my bottom, and the mention of meconium staining. So the baby had been under stress, although the monitor’s reading seemed to be satisfactory? But apparently the staining was minimal and there was still no danger.

At some point Barbie Sutton came up to visit, with her oldest daughter Nancy. How did they contrive to be allowed up to L&D with me? I remember the conversation, swirling around me. I tried so hard to remain alert enough to talk but I’d say a sentence and then slip off again – Barbie would think it was another contraction though most of the time it was me drifting off between contractions. They were very slow, but stronger, as I thought – I could tell by the monitor.

Then the first shot began to wear off. I was aware that Juanita had gone home for a few hours, and that the room was empty except for Susan keeping vigil at the foot of my bed (I think). And suddenly I realized that I was involuntarily moaning, crying out with the pain. This irritated my nurse so much that she asked the doctor if I could have another dose – or did I ask first? – and he gave consent … blessed (or so it seemed, at the time) oblivion again.

Only this time the experience was even stranger, almost hallucinogenic. I dreamed the pains, and writhed under them in my sleep – at one point it was as if I experienced my labor from my baby’s viewpoint … hazy red darkness, and pain crushing me from all sides. I kicked and fought as the baby inside me did.
Then Susan’s soft (and tired) voice penetrated, telling me to relax, go with it – a quiet litany that soothed and reminded me that I was not alone in this dark well of pain. I found that I could quiet myself … and I was reminded of the Lord’s personal promise to me, that He was carrying me.

But oh, it hurt. I was in transition now and begged for another dose of Stadol. Dr. Cook gently refused and said I was too close to being completely dilated: he checked and found me nine and a half centimeters. With one hand inside me he told me to push; I cried out my refusal but did as he said, and the remaining lip of the cervix slipped over the baby’s head.

Contractions continued but were different. Someone asked me if I felt the urge to push; well, yes, now that I thought about it, I decided I did. Was that the difference? At some point Juanita had returned, rested and ready for the final stretch. The nurse came then – a different one again, Dolores this time, who had been on when I’d first come in. She’d impressed me with her expert kindness when she’d done the heparin lock (the second time) and was no different now. She directed me in my pushing technique: during the contraction, hold my breath and push as long as I could. But that’s not right, I thought stubbornly. In class Sandy had taught us short pushes, on a six-count, not long ones; and she’d said to let my breath out and groan while I pushed. I positioned myself as she said but tried to push as I’d first been taught. After a couple of contractions I realized that it wouldn’t be effective at all and began doing as Dolores said.

Soon the “urge to push” was an inexorable rhythm of draw one knee up, tuck chin, hold breath and push – three times each contraction – and then lying back on my side to rest. Susan was on my right, Juanita on my left and Dolores at my feet, encouraging, offering me comfort, urging me on. I tried to feel the baby’s head – not yet! And – ah, no! – suddenly between contractions the baby would kick, triggering another. I’d lay back to rest only to be compelled to curl up and push some more.
An hour, then more. Now Dolores could see the baby’s head. Juanita constantly offered to get me water, anything – I refused. At last I had real work to do and I was centered on my task I wouldn’t (or couldn’t) pause. Susan sat faithfully holding my hand and encouraging, then dozing off between contractions. The next thing I knew, the baby’s head had crowned and they were gowning up for the delivery room.

That irresistible drive to bear down! But they were wheeling me through the hallway, and the nurses were staring – I couldn’t give in here! Then we were there. The delivery room was wide and brightly lit, in contrast to my small, dim labor room. My bed was placed under the center lights, which had mirrors attached, I noted, so I could watch the delivery myself. In one corner two nursery workers waited with their equipment – because of the meconium in the amniotic fluid – and now the woman attending me was not Dolores but a midwife, who would coach my pushing efforts until it was time for the doctor to come. She was as kind and gentle as Dolores had been.

At some point in the delivery room I began experiencing the “rim of fire” sensation described in my childbirth prep class, and in clutching Susan’s hand I found that I had it pressed to my lips against the pain. Only just in time did I catch myself from biting her! I apologized, and the midwife soothed me, saying that anything I had to do to get through was fine. Anything, that is, I panted back, but bite my coach. All three of them laughed and I registered surprise that even at this intense moment I could keep a little of my humor. (Not for the first time in my labor, either!)

Dr. Cook came in now, and he and the midwife massaged my perineal area and applied oil liberally, to the end that an episiotomy might be avoided. He did a pudendal block, numbing the perineum itself, and waited. And I pushed – always I pushed. Juanita offered to support my leg but I found it hurt less to hook my own arm behind the knee for leverage. We watched as the baby’s head appeared then slowly receded slightly between contractions; Dr. Cook and the midwife bantered over the baby’s sex. “It looks like a girl!” the midwife crowed. Dr. Cook’s retort was dry. (I thought smugly how he would be wrong, that the baby was a girl … as most had said!) I learned that he had just come out of the Air Force – how ironic, I thought, with Troy having just gone in … !

Between pushes, I, too, contemplated the baby’s head. The tiny crown, and the white, wrinkled area that marked the compressed fontanel. Not realizing that it was just compression and not a deformity of some kind, I asked (stupidly) what it was while Dr. Cook gently prodded it – he misunderstood the question, gave me a puzzled frown and said, “The head!” I gave up – being still too fuzzy from the Stadol to try and make him understand my question.

…Coaxing and encouragement from all sides. Dr. Cook’s stern, “Come on – push!” The edge to his voice – impatience with me, or just his way? Impatience, I decided, thought I might have been wrong … when I broke my silence and groaned once, trying to give expression to my effort, he quickly told me, “Save it …”

More pushing, in response to the coaching around me … I rested and watched the head recede again. Then with a burst of determination I began to push with renewed energy. I did not want to lose ground! There was no pain now but the pressure was incredible, the fit of the baby’s head impossibly tight … I scene from years ago flashed through my head as I strained and strained to give birth … my mother’s favorite doe goat, struggling to deliver her own kid. She cried as the widest part of the head began to pass and I slipped my fingers around behind the tiny creature’s ears and gently helped pull … now I cried out, help me! As if they could read my mind and see what I so desperately wanted … almost to the ears now … oh, please help … but Dr. Cook just stood there, his dark eyes watching, waiting …

Seeing my progress in the small overhead mirror drove me on – and suddenly there was my baby’s head and everyone was exclaiming with delight as Dr. Cook worked swiftly to suction out the nose and mouth. Wait, he told me. The midwife said something about pushing and he said no, he didn’t need me to push … but the child was frantic and the kicking inside me triggered that overpowering urge once more. I have to, I told him, and did so, not even allowing time to turn the baby. He shook his head disparagingly – and then he was holding the baby in his hands, quietly announcing that I had a boy!

I looked to see, and he was right! A boy! Lord, You had the final laugh after all! All those months I knew, but listened to the speculations of my friends … my baby son drew first breath, and Dr. Cook carried him screaming and trembling to the nursery workers, who set immediately to the task of suctioning for meconium aspiration.
From my bed in the middle of the room, I tried to watch, but all I saw were his arms and legs, shaking with the exertion of his cries as they waved, spindly, in the air. Then Dr. Cook brought me back to the task of expelling the afterbirth … not how I would have had it done, either, but all argument had drained out of me hours ago. I remember Lisa saying, “I can handle this!” and gave myself as well as I could to pushing … again … while he tugged on the cord.

In minutes, they had wrapped my tiny Alistair Douglas in a blanket and brought him back to me – he was fine! And no sooner had I settled him into the curve of my left arm than Susan was handing me the phone – what’s this? It’s Troy? Seven minutes after his son’s birth, he had called on an unexplained compulsion and was put through by the L&D desk to my delivery room – where Susan gave him the news that he was now a father! So he shared with me the sound of that newborn voice, and my first good look into those tiny wondrous eyes. For Alistair quieted, and his eyes opened and found my face.

You, child – baby boy all “rose and gold” – for we could tell already that you were given my hair – you were my hardest and best work!

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