Erin Rose —February 15, 1994

I trusted God—I thought. I trusted that He would bring me to labor “in time,” i.e., before the doctors and midwives started pushing for induction. I begged Him to speak to my puttering, slow body, as in Psalms, where it says that “his voice strips the forest bare and makes the deer give birth.” Just one day before my two-week “overdue” date, I sat in the doctor’s office and shared with Dr. Stroud all of my concerns, questions, and wishes surrounding induced labor. I had them all lined up—was breaking my water necessary, how often did it really work to start labor, could they try prostaglandin gel first, could I still use the tub, etc. I did not want another hard, fast labor like Ian’s—where the waves were too intense to ride with, and the pain medication actually did nothing to dull the pain. Dr. Stroud accepted all my questions thoughtfully; she promised to work with me; but after all the negotiation, I went home completely deflated, thinking, “Tomorrow is the day.”

I called my mother. “I feel like my body has failed me,” I told her. “I feel like my faith has failed me.”

Praise God—He does not fail—even when faith does! One by one He cleared the obstacles. (“By my God I can run against a troop; by my God I can leap over a wall.”)

I went to bed, got up, lay down again. I slept perhaps four hours, my whole being as taut as the strings on my guitar (and less harmonious). When the time finally came to wake Troy and prepare to leave, I felt—and so I announced to him and anyone else who would listen for the next hour—like I was about to ride over Niagara Falls on a rubber raft. My stomach was in knots. Marcie arrived with Pat, who would keep the boys. The three of us went on to the hospital, stopping at admissions briefly before dutifully presenting ourselves in Labor and Delivery. Oh, Lord, I breathed silently, here we go!

Prep was a blur—change into a gown (I decided after all against my own shapeless but comfy oversize tee), get in bed, let them hook up the fetal monitor...what else? The nurse seemed to be personable enough as she reviewed my birth plan and asked questions to fill in the labor report. I was surprised to observe throughout the course of my labor how cautiously, even hesitantly, she dealt with me. I told her of my experience with IV’s the last two times (I detest needles—and IV’s are especially painful), and she immediately went to find someone else to do it this time, not trusting her own skill.

Marcie talked me through it—bless her! Prep was done by 8:45, Pit drip started by 9. I think it was 9:20 or so before the contractions started. They were mild to moderate, easy to relax through. The three of us joked, laughed, and took pictures a lot during this part. I remembered all the little “important” things I needed to do, like going to the bathroom every hour and watching my position.

The late morning was punctuated with the sounds of another laboring woman, perhaps in the next room. I listened to her moans turning to screams and wondered if I would do the same. I didn’t want the entire floor to hear me, but then—I definitely understood. I kept waiting for the hard contractions to hit, and my nervousness eased only gradually.

I was much relieved—and pleasantly shocked—to discover that in keeping with her promise to work with me, Dr. Stroud had ordered a very low starting dose of Pitocin, the amount being increased “every so often,” as needed to progress the labor. Normally the Pitocin was started at a much higher level, with the dosage routinely increased every 15 minutes. Evidently they hoped to be able to merely “jump start” my labor, since my cervix was already dilated to 3 cm and well effaced from weeks of pre-labor.

But—my body was taking its own sweet time—as usual! I was only at 5 cm or so when they checked me sometime around noon. That was small comfort, though I knew that labor usually progresses faster after 5 or 6 cm. By this time, the contractions hurt a little more, especially at the peaks. It took more effort to relax but I could still joke in between.

Early into my labor, I could tell by the pressure in my pelvis just where the baby’s head was positioned. With each contraction the baby shifted a little until he (she?) faced toward my spine, as was best. I was glad to not have back labor. (Another worry out of the way!) I found it disappointing, though, to be mostly confined to bed, and that on my side instead of sitting up. I remembered having more freedom with Ian; however, this time the nurse couldn’t always find the baby’s heartbeat while I was up. I wanted to try the rocking chair, just once, and she let me sit there for about half an hour—mostly off the monitor, which I was not supposed to do. The fetal monitor was not only to keep track of the baby’s heart rate, but also to gauge the strength of the contractions, making sure the Pitocin was not too much.

So finally (about midday? early afternoon?) it was back to bed, on my side. Soon the monitor was thumping away again with the amplified sound of the baby’s heartbeat. The contractions still came at 4-5 minutes apart, and my water had not yet broken, though there was lots of show now. Not doing an amniotomy to start my labor was another thing Dr. Stroud had agreed to, since I felt that leaving the bag of waters intact would lessen much of the risk of induced labor for the baby. She told me that amniotomy only works to start labor about 50% of the time—which I thought that wasn’t good enough to justify losing the benefits of letting my water break naturally.

Now I was getting tired—and a little bored. My nurse was in and out, first on her lunch break, then assisting with another birth. After I tried the rocking chair and returned to bed, Marcie and Troy moved in to rub my legs and back during contractions. Mm—how nice! I felt vaguely guilty, though, soaking up their attention when I didn’t—quite—need it yet. Then, around 2:00 (p.m.), the contractions slowed and quit altogether. I chafed for the nurse to return; I had told her already (with growing acceptance of labor—finally!) that if she had to up the Pitocin, please do so; I would deal with it. Up to this point, the thought of hard labor had sent me into an internal panic, but now I was ready to have it over with. When the nurse returned, we talked briefly: she had to leave yet again and told me to try to rest while she was gone; when she returned she would up the dose and we’d go from there.

Troy stationed himself at the beside, Marcie left to find something to eat, and I drifted off. It wasn’t for long, only 20-30 minutes, but I awoke much refreshed. The nurse returned about 3:00 and increased the Pitocin, after I’d gotten up one last time and settled back into my “nest.” There was also a shift change about this time—my plump, older, motherly attendant was replaced by a younger nurse, about my own age (who in fact seemed more confident than the first—but just as compassionate). Also, Dr. Stroud went off duty; and Jean, one of the midwives, came on.

The new nurse offered to get Jean to check me, but I refused, knowing that emotional state is a much better judge of labor’s progress than dilation in the first stage. The contractions started again between 3:00 and 3:30, in seriousness. It was harder to relax now, and with each contraction I needed Troy’s and Marcie’s touch for support. About this time they debated whether or not to have Dusty bring them something to eat; I told them go ahead, not knowing how long we could still be. Troy stayed with me, and Marcie went downstairs again to wait.

Taking sips of juice, I rested between contractions, but remained alert for the next one. At the first hint of tightness I would call out, “Troy-y! Another one’s coming!” I could hear the edge of anxiety in my own voice, and though a little vexed by my plaintiveness, Troy would return every time to his task of stroking my lower back and watching for signs of tension. “Relax your hands...your forehead is tight...you’re doing great....” (Thank You, Lord, for Bradley class!!)

With every contraction I began a long, low moan, as the baby pressed harder against my cervix and pubic bone. This was the only real pain I felt—more like the occasional sharp jabs that came often during late pregnancy, from the baby’s head bouncing on my ripe cervix. The contraction itself I felt as simple tightness and pressure...I supposed that this was the added cushion of the still-intact amniotic sac.

I was definitely experiencing active labor now. Brief waves of nausea came and went, usually after a drink of juice, subsiding each time after a burp. Is this transition yet? I wondered. When the nurse came in I asked her to get the midwife to check me. Thinking it would surely be a while yet (he missed the significance of the nausea), Troy tried to dissuade me, but I insisted. Very soon Jean came, and after a moment announced that I was fully dilated and could push anytime I wished...the bag of waters was bulging and would I like her to break it?

A flood of relief washed over me, and I began sobbing (with gratitude) as Troy exclaimed over missing the signs. Then Marcie returned. “I knew it!” she crowed, but with a rueful note, for she carried a bag of cheeseburgers which almost certainly now would be left to get cold.

Troy tried to hush me and dimly I was aware of the sudden bustle around me: nurses breaking the bed down, attaching the squatting bar (after I’d gotten upright, tried leaning on Troy and Marcie, and changed my mind), and other preparations to receive the baby.

It felt good to get up—as planned, I squatted first. It didn’t feel right yet so I changed to a kneeling position, still keeping outside pressure off my tailbone, and my knees apart, to give the baby’s head room to descend. I decided against letting Jean break my water just yet; too strong in my mind was Cyndi’s experience—her water broke at 10 cm, then she went back to 8 ½ cm and had to go through transition twice.

Oh—I’d forgotten how much this part could hurt. Contractions seemed to come with exaggerated slowness, and I was puzzled by my lack of a pushing urge. (It had been so strong with both Alistair and Ian.) Though I’d calmed after my initial rush of emotion at finding I’d made it through transition (with no drugs!!), the sobs returned once or twice as I despaired of getting the baby’s head lower. It hurt to push, so I avoided it after a contraction or two, finding it felt better to “blow through” the wave.

The minutes blurred as I cried and rocked back and forth—struggled is more the word—making up for an “easy” transition. Or maybe I was still in late transition—I definitely had more of the signs. “I can’t do it,” I panted, and Troy and Marcie assured me I could. “Help me,” I wailed—the only prayer I could articulate at this time—“it hurts!”

“You’ll see your baby soon!” Marcie assured me.

Yes, and I know that’s what you’re supposed to say, I thought, with a touch of wryness; aloud I told her, “It doesn’t help right now!”

Slowly the baby’s head descended. When I was satisfied that breaking the water wouldn’t cause a digression like Cyndi’s (I kept reaching down to check the baby’s progress for myself), I told Jean to go ahead with it. Somehow I felt now that the bulging water was only a hindrance.

At times I was half frantic with the pain—crying out, yet half ashamed of myself (“I just know I sound like that lady down the hall”—then they all hastened to assure me that no one else could hear, though I knew that couldn’t be true). Marcie made the comment as I shifted positions and insisted on being upright that I was “really into this control thing”...oh, dear Marcie! If you only knew how out of control I really felt...

I definitely could not control my urge to bite something...I dug my teeth into the bar then let go as I felt the vinyl cover almost give. Later—Troy tells me—it was his cheek; I truly don’t remember that one! At some point Jean said the bar needed to come off, and Troy and Marcie resumed stations one on either side, supporting me. As we went on, I rolled my head first against Troy’s shoulder, then Marcie’s; their combined embrace was greatly comforting.

I sat back to rest between pushes and sometimes stayed there through the contraction. Though the urge grew stronger, I still blow-pushed at the beginning and end of a contraction, bearing down hard only at the peak. This slow pushing helped make the pain bearable, as the pressure began to numb my perineum.

It was about this time that I noticed my reflection in the darkened screen of the TV at the foot of my bed. This became my focal point: a pool of light, in miniature, and the baby’s head bulging round and pale between my legs. While I rested between contractions, I put my hand down to feel the baby’s head, fully crowned, and was filled with wonder. The smooth, slippery skin, and downy strands of wet hair...I slipped my fingers past the ring of my own flesh and felt the tips of the baby’s ears. Then a thought came to me, whether I could help ease the baby out with my own hands—I was so tired of pushing—

As my fingers probed around the baby’s head, searching, I became aware of Troy’s uncomfortable shifting beside me (undoubtedly everyone else was, too), impatient for me to just push and get it over with. Okay—so back to work. Jean’s fingers replaced mine around the stretched opening, making yet a little more room (which is what I was trying to do); and I leaned forward to push again...

They “lost” the baby’s heartbeat—the monitor could not pick it up when I was in the squatting position—and I remember Jean’s calm voice saying that they would have to take this one in faith. (Thank the Lord—again—for her not rushing things!) Then Dr. Lucas popped in for a moment and went goggle-eyed at the sight of me sitting back, resting, with this seemingly huge head past crowned—and no one moving. “How long has the baby been like that?” he gasped, starting to roll up his sleeves. “Have you gotten a heartbeat...?”

Jean turned to him, almost languidly, I thought, and said, “Oh, a few minutes...we’re doing just fine.”

“Oh,” he said, and after staring for a few more seconds, apparently decided he couldn’t handle the suspense and left.

...I sat forward and pushed as hard as I could...impossible pressure, shot through with pain that somehow felt good, sort of; and anyway I couldn’t stop now if I tried...

The head was out. I sat back to rest—one last time—while Jean suctioned the baby’s nose and mouth, and Troy and Marcie squealed over the baby’s “fat cheeks.” “Now,” Jean said, very deliberately, “I need you to either go all the way back and let me do this, or come all the way up … now.”

I took a deep breath, and with Marcie and Troy’s help, came back up into a full squat. One long, hard push—still not enough—then two—long—hard—

The baby slid from me, heralded by sighs and exclamations (from everyone, I think, and there were no fewer than five attendants including Jean). As Jean brought the baby up to rest on my tummy (Troy said she barely caught her), Troy announced, his voice tight with excitement, “It’s a girl!”

To which I echoed, “A girl?!” and promptly started sobbing—again!

Instead of just lifting my gown, I completely stripped, so glad to finally be free of the confining monitor belts. (“Now can I have a bath?” I blurted, not expecting to be taken seriously. To my complete surprise, Jean replied that yes, I could, when she had checked me and made sure I was OK.)

And now all my attention was on this new wonder—now resting on my body—a marvelous little girl whose first cries were hardly cries at all, more like the bleat of a lamb. They placed a blanket over both of us for warmth, and I reveled in the feel of still-wet, slippery newborn skin against mind. I couldn’t stop crying—not from pain, though I still felt bruised inside from my tailbone down, but with renewed gratitude and wonder at how the Lord worked things out. I’d made it through an induced labor without needing pain medication—a dear wish of mine—and then to have my first girl—!

But there was still much to be done. I tried to nurse Erin but she only looked at me and mouthed my nipple...still it was wonderful to look into her face for the first time and find it somehow familiar—more than just the fact that her features are a composite of mine and Troy’s—the mere overwhelming rightness of the first meeting between mother and baby. I remember Marcie’s exclamation to Erin, “Oh—you look like your brothers!” and we all laughed. We called our families; I cried again as I told my mother that her first granddaughter had arrived. (In fact, I cried off and on for most of two hours.)

In accordance with my wishes (previously arranged), a woman from the nursery came to do the newborn check and observation. I noticed that this nurse seemed to have quite an attitude—I guessed because of the imposition of doing Erin’s newborn care in my room and not in the nursery, but I decided that was her problem, not mine. Troy and Marcie both commented later on their own irritation at her for this reason.

The nurse expressed her concern (sulkily, I might add) over Erin’s low blood sugar (too much juice in labor?) and elevated respiratory rate. I told her that I would like to try nursing Erin first, before she was carted off to the nursery for treatment. Sure enough, this was just what Erin needed. She suckled quite willingly now...and her sugar level came up, and her breathing eased, now that she was close to someone she knew again. Holding her soothed me, as well. I’d found myself chafing against the short separation, though this time it was just for a little while, and only a few feet away!

After her first feed, I gave Erin up for a turn with Daddy and “Aunt” Marcie. Then (more to my amazement than anything—I was still too elated to be alarmed) there seemed to be a complication with me...the L&D nurse, Sally, frowned every time she checked my bleeding. I dreaded these checks, since every time Sally would press on my lower abdomen (still very sore) and I would pass an unusually large amount of clots. Finally Jean returned and checked me internally. She stood back for a moment and explained that she would need to go inside (with her hand) and clean out the last of the clots. I took a deep breath and said that since I’d just handled the birth itself, surely I could handle this...

Relaxation techniques didn’t help much—it was like the pushing stage all over again, almost as painful, with much less to look forward to!

At last, after a dose of methergine, they decided I would be all right and let me up to use the tub. It felt a rare luxury, to lay back and soak—to get completely clean only two hours after the birth. And then I held my new daughter (what a word!) and prepared to go to my room in the maternity ward.

The last especially noteworthy incident occurred when Sally was wheeling me out of the birthing room. One of the other L&D nurses called out to me, “See you next year!”

I learned that she liked to say this to new mothers, just for effect. Her jaw dropped, however, when I promptly smiled and replied, “Probably!”

Alistair's Story | Ian's Story | Erin's Story | Ross' Story | Breanna's Story
Duncan's Story | Cameron's Story | Corrie's Story | Meeghan's Story