Abstract
The author shares her story of moving beyond fear of childbirth, preparing for the birth of her baby, and the profound experience of giving birth. She shares the details of her preparation and education from childbirth classes, and the support she received from her nurse (her angel) and her husband (her steadfast star). It is a story of overcoming fear, working intensely during labor, leaning on a chosen support team and savoring the joy of finally giving birth to her son.
Keywords: childbirth education, childbirth satisfaction, pregnancy, labor and birth, comfort strategies
Just before September 11, 2001, my sister, who is 13 years older than me was about to have her second child. For reasons I still don’t fully understand, she wanted me, her 24-year-old, single sister to be present with her and her husband during the baby’s birth. In the spirit of being supportive I said sure, having really no idea what I was about to be part of. There was nothing about having a baby, never mind birthing one, in my consciousness. But that day I bore witness to all of it: her discomfort, her screaming, her husband’s tentative involvement. I held her leg, watched her get an epidural, saw the baby emerge in all it’s waxy, bloody, blueness. My heart fell when the baby didn’t cry immediately. I had no idea there was mucus sucking involved first. It was nothing like the movies.
Fast forward several years, I am happily married and very ambivalent about having a baby. The existential questions around motherhood aside, I was very squeamish and seriously scared about going through what I had witnessed years earlier. At the time, my internal narrative had nothing in it about my sister’s bravery, the nurse’s skill, the doctor’s care or the healthy baby. It was the death-defying, high-wire act of pushing a baby through and out that held all my thoughts. I was gripped with fear, and not necessarily of the unknown.
Then, a funny thing happened. My husband and I started trying to have a baby. And after a lifetime of hearing things like, “It only takes one time to get pregnant!” at 32, it was actually quite a bit harder than all that. And so, determination started to edge out fear. And my worries about the impossibility of birthing a baby were channeled into the daily exercise of making one: charting my cycle, monitoring ovulation, holding my hips and legs up against the wall after intercourse. Just like the health teacher told us about!
It approached a year of trying and there was nothing “wrong,” but nothing was happening either. My gynecologist, whom I adored, recommended to stop fixating, relax and “drink more wine,” which didn’t feel like the worst advice. We had a celebratory New Year’s Eve ringing in 2010, but I was feeling defeated and prepared to embark on a steady course of acupuncture to aid the cause. Then, I thought I was premenstrual. But I was pregnant. The impossible was possible.
I had a fairly easy, normal pregnancy save for a couple bleeding incidents due to a subchorionic hematoma. The first time I discovered blood, I felt overcome with fear and deep despair. After an ultrasound, the doctor saw the source of the bleeding and assured me, and showed me, that the baby was fine. I was put on my pelvic rest, which meant I couldn’t do high impact exercise or vacuum. I was not upset to miss out on either. The fear was still there, but it didn’t grip me tightly. The flutters and later on, full somersaults, felt thrilling and also bizarre. What was this living thing inside of me? And then the lingering question that never quite went away: But really, how would this baby get out?
Many of the answers and comfort came from the childbirth class my husband and I attended at New York University run by two incredible nursing professionals, Eileen DiFrisco and Gladys Ellett. That weekly schlep to 1st Ave from Brooklyn was worth every subway step. I was able to engage my curiosity and dampen my fear. At the time, the buzz was all about natural childbirth, and breast is best. I felt a lot of pressure to do things right: have a medication-free, natural birth, breastfeed on demand, co-sleep and on and on. Eileen and Gladys, while supportive of breastfeeding and avoiding unnecessary interventions, took a totally holistic approach. I will never forget Eileen saying she had four children: two by vaginal birth and two by cesarean. They made all the possibilities feel acceptable and laid out a whole bag of tricks for a positive labor and delivery experience. We took copious notes on the stages of labor, the importance of moving around and relaxation techniques. There was so much to remember but we were sure not to forget this: delay the epidural as long as possible and move during labor (get a birthing ball!) Also, bring home the squirt bottle from the hospital.
I enjoyed being pregnant and was amazed by the transformation of this baby, whose gender we chose not to know in advance, from sesame seed to avocado to cantaloupe. But with about a month to go I started to feel that old panic again. I was worried. I was weepy. Scared of the hospital, the labor. All the fears I had before getting pregnant were coming back. The “what ifs” flooded my brain. What if I have to have a cesarean What if I can’t breastfeed? What if I have post-partum depression? I prayed, breathed, conjured Joan of Arc, the bravest person I never knew and answered my what ifs with her words; “I am not afraid, I was born to do this.” I thought of my mother and grandmothers and all these women who had been through this most extraordinary of ordinary events. I practiced the relaxation exercises I learned in birthing class and breathed my way through the end of September.
My due date was September 23, 2010 after one of the hottest summers on record in New York City. Besides swollen feet, I was exasperated by two questions from well meaning friends and relatives. “Are you excited?” and “Are you ready?” I was both and neither. After a delayed crib delivery and a full moon, John and I fell asleep on the 21st doing those breathing exercises. I awoke at 6:29 a.m. on September 22nd feeling like I was peeing. When I stood up, fluid came pouring out of me and it was tinged green. All over the floor and everywhere. Every time I moved my water broke more- in the hallway, on the couch! I knew the green meant meconium and I wouldn’t be able to labor at home. I would have to call the obstetrician right away. As I figured, she said to come to the hospital as soon as possible. By the time I was ready, after showering twice because the fluid just wouldn’t stop coming, and John cleaning up all the strange water everywhere, we finally got in our new Subaru (we were having a baby, we needed a car)—with a garbage bag covering the seat and myself wrapped in a teal bath towel over my clothes—and headed to NYU Langone. We felt like we knew what we were doing, or at least where we were going. My husband dropped me off at the 34th St entrance so he could park. The hospital was undergoing construction and it wasn’t entirely clear where to go. A nurse saw me walking around with my towel and took me up to Labor & Delivery in a freight elevator.
When I arrived to check in, there was a swirl of activity. It just after 8 a.m. and nurses and staff were running in every direction. The person at the desk informed me there were no rooms available but they would set me up in triage. I got a corner spot and John arrived with bags and an un-inflated birthing ball in hand. The curtain swung closed, I got into a nightgown, where I promptly leaked more. I lied down on the cot and the nurse strapped the fetal monitor belt around me. I was having very small contractions, so short and spread out I couldn’t feel anything. John opened the shades to the glimmering morning sun on the East River. I took a deep breath. John finished pumping up the birthing ball. I remembered my instructions and started rocking and rolling. Then she walked in.
With a huge smile she introduced herself, “I’m Christine and I’m going to be your labor and delivery nurse today. I’m so happy to see you on the ball!” I already felt like a got a gold star. She had long, dark blonde hair pulled back in a ponytail and a great wide smile. She wore a small medal with Mary on it around her neck, which I took as a sign. We were in triage until 10 a.m. when a room opened up. It felt like the Ritz Carlton compared to triage. Quiet, private, spacious. And almost as soon as I got settled in, she checked me and I was 3 cm dilated. We got the laptop set up with music and photos. John let our families know we were here and gave a firm but kind message to mine that we would see them after the baby was born.
My contractions were getting stronger and closer and my back hurt. I rolled on the ball, hung over the side of the bed while John rubbed my back. Christine asked me about epidural and I asked if we could wait and she said yes. She said she would tell me when it was a good time and then I could decide. I wanted to walk around and she encouraged all the movement. So I bounced and walked and rocked and walked and listened to the playlist I had made for that day. People were in and out and the doctor who saw me when we first arrived had left and a new one was there. I was feeling more pressure in my lower back. I had brought this lavender body oil from Trader Joe’s and John continually rubbed my back with it as I rocked on the ball. Christine had them bring him a plate of food. It was lunchtime now and I couldn’t eat. I was slightly jealous but he certainly needed his energy, and I needed his too.
It was early afternoon when I started to feel more intensity, this powerful wave of warmth radiating from front to back and up and down. Christine suggested I get in the shower, so she showed John what to do. It was a big room with a shower in it and it was so soothing and the perfect relaxation technique I wouldn’t have thought to ask for. After the shower John and I breathed and breathed, Working hard on hee hees and ho hos. I was getting tired. Christine came and we talked about epidural again but I could still talk and laugh so I thought I should keep going. At 2:30 things got intense. I was at 5 cm. dilated when she checked me. The warmth and slight pressure was turning into the feeling of the worst menstrual cramps I ever had. It was harder to smile or talk. I made the decision to have the epidural. John was supportive. Christine was so reassuring. “You don’t have to be a hero- and not getting an epidural doesn’t actually make you a hero anyway.”
In what felt like the incredibly long time (probably 45 minutes) I waited for the anesthesiologist, my contractions gained in strength and duration. I don’t remember the count but just the feeling of being knocked around by the waves in a rough ocean, trying to get up to recover only to be knocked into rushing water again. I couldn’t talk much at all at this point, I could only breathe. When the doctor finally arrived, a new fear—of the needle—crept up my throat. I was crying. Everyone kept saying to make my back into a C-shape and I kept trying but couldn’t do it. The anesthesiologist was frustrated. Christine got close to me, breathed with me and told me, as she would for the rest of the day, “You can do this.” My tears flowed but I arched, breathed and the needle went in.
After that, I laid in bed for the first time since triage. John turned on the TV and I knew it was after 4:00 pm because Oprah was on. It was not a very interesting episode. I closed my eyes and must have fallen asleep. When the doctor came in, the TV was off. She checked my cervix and I was 9 cm dilated. This was good. She was clearly pleased and said to rest up a little bit longer. We put on the music and it felt easier to relax now. The lights were low and all I heard was Katie Melula singing her soft version of Just Like Heaven.
Strange as angels
Dancing in the deepest oceans
Twisting in the water
You’re just like a dream
Suddenly, I woke up again. The lights were on and a lot of people were in the room. The energy had changed. Christine was excited and John was energized. I couldn’t believe this was happening. Christine went through the instructions on pushing and breathing. It was 6 p.m. The back of the bed went up like a chair back and Christine coached me in crouching, using the pull bar. Once this phase of labor started, I was shocked at how much pressure I felt and how strong the contractions were. “Take a big cleansing breath at the top of each contraction,” she told me. Christine on my left, John on my right, I felt the meaning of the agony and the ecstasy in my body. I had never loved my husband more. I was overcome with gratitude that this angel nurse was my coach, my doula, my toolkit. If I let out a yell, Christine redirected me, “Don’t waste your energy on yelling. Focus on the breath.” When it was time to bear down she postured herself, hunched, with her arms bent in front, in a gorilla—like stance. “You are a mama gorilla!” she said, and I copied her. Holding the breath and letting it go. Following the lead of my body telling me to push.
I was sweating and so incredibly thirsty. John fed me ice chips and put wet washcloths on my head. I was basically naked in a room with strangers but I was so focused on getting through the next contraction, I didn’t really care. Then, over the intercom behind me, someone said, “Ms. Leonard, your mother and sister are here.” Without being able to speak I could only shake my head no, and one of the residents ran to the door so they couldn’t come in. They were knocking on the door of the delivery room! But everyone I wanted in there already was I was beyond grateful for the bouncer who didn’t let them in.
Then the doctor was there. I couldn’t remember if she had been there before. She asked if I wanted to feel the baby’s head. Again I couldn’t speak, just shook my head no. And then this most intense burning sensation took over and I was trying not to scream but that was all I felt like doing. Hee hee hee ho ho ho, I was definitely grunting like a mama gorilla. I felt wild with pain and every muscle in my body was exhausted. My music had been playing the whole time in the background and every so often I could track back to the familiar sounds. Now it was the Killers rocking me out to the finish line:
Slipping in my faith until I fall
He never returned that call
Woman, open the door, don’t let it sting
I wanna breathe that fire again
I could see it was dark out now. I knew Christine’s shift would be over soon. I knew she wouldn’t leave before this baby was out but I did feel this sudden urgency, this fire was intensifying and I had to get this baby out. But the impossible thoughts were back. The pressure and the burning were excruciating. How could I push this baby through? “You can do this, you’ve got this!” Christine kept saying. They told John to go around and look. He told me there was brown hair. The look of amazement on his face I’ll never forget. I bore down and followed the voice and the breath and the angel on my left and the steadfast star on my right. “One big push!” the doctor said and I pushed with all the strength I had left. My eyes were closed. Tears were just coming down. I felt like I wasn’t even in my body anymore. I definitely yelled. The doctor said, “It’s a boy!” and we all looked at each other. I couldn’t believe it. They whisked the baby to the table and suctioned him with tubes and it felt like hours before he cried but then he did and they put him on my chest and John cried and I sobbed and I think Christine maybe cried too. I gave birth to James Louis, an 8.25 lb baby boy at 7:29 p.m. Exactly 13 hours after the first gush of water.
Eleven years later, I feel goose bumps when I think about this day. I have never before or since been prouder of myself, for trusting more than fearing, for listening and following good advice, for talking back to the anxiety. And at the end of it all, I had a beautiful baby and an experience that I would relive if I ever could. All the pain, elation and love I felt that day is inscribed in my heart. When I am fed up with my husband now of 15 years, I conjure the memory of that day- how connected we were, how we worked together seamlessly. I loved him that day as much as I loved our baby. When I’m frustrated with my 11 year old’s antics, I try to remember the complete joy and triumph of his birth. I hold him in my mind like I held his tiny body that day.
And of course, Christine. I will always feel like she was angel who just dropped down to help me do what I needed to do that day. Her shift started shortly after we arrived that morning and ended when James was born. It might have been a coincidence but it felt preordained. Her expertise, patience, humor, and compassion help me dig deep within myself and uncover strength and stamina I didn’t know I had. I tried to find her months and years later, but I never could. I’ll be grateful to her forever for helping me bring my son into the world and for showing me that nothing is impossible.
Biography
ELIZABETH LEONARD was born and raised in Brooklyn, NY. She currently resides in Maplewood, NJ with her husband, John (steadfast as ever) and their three children.
DISCLOSURE
The author have no relevant financial interest or affiliations with any commercial interests related to the subjects discussed within this article.
FUNDING
The author received no specific grant or financial support for the research, authorship, and/or publication of this article.