I wrote a short and to-the-point version of this epic tale a few days after Poppy was born. But now, almost three months later, I can’t stop thinking about the night of February 6th, when my whole world began to turn upside down as labor finally (and I mean finally) began. It seems like I can recount more details than I could before, and the story becomes more fresh and every detail more precious as time passes. So I am giving the telling another go – to see if I can more accurately tell the story of Poppy’s birth.
PART I
Anyone that follows me on Facebook, CrunchyCursive, or various other Internet portals, may remember the dreadfully long and agonizing weeks leading up to Poppy’s birth. My due date was February 2nd, but by mid-January, I was beginning to dilate and experience long bouts of contractions. Every week, my doctor said, “I’ll be surprised to see you make it to next week’s appointment.” Um, yes, here I am again. Just want to make sure my feet billow to the maximum before I end this blissful swelling.
By week 38, I was almost 3 centimeters dilated and fully effaced. Many women don’t get to this point until halfway through labor. I walked around in this state for another three weeks. We tried everything to get labor started – spicy foods, special herbs and teas, bouncing on the birth ball, hanky panky, exercise – you name it, we did it. By week 40, Jacob was dragging my huge, helpless body to every mall in the greater Cleveland area to make me walk for hours on end. Beachwood Mall was my favorite. Secret corridors made the fourth time around seem brand new. During that last week of pregnancy, I started false labor several times with contractions 2-3 minutes apart for hours. Hours. Had I let him, Jacob would have taken me to the hospital and kept me there until I spawned the child.
On the evening of February 6th (it was a Friday), we had just finished a quick walk around the neighborhood and were settling in for a night of Star Trek and junk food. I really, really wanted some Oreo cookies. Jacob ran out to the store and brought me back some Double Stuff Oreos. I ate about two-thirds of the box. Then I had BBQ chips for dessert. It was the perfect pregnant-lady dinner, really. I was totally satisfied and done feeling sorry for myself that I was 40 weeks, 5 days along and still pregnant. Actually, from what I remember, we had a super-relaxing day that day. Jacob worked from home Friday because he had a “feeling,” and he also knew that I needed his company to help me relax. I had been super worked up about having the baby on time. Our doctor threatened us with an induction if I was still pregnant by week 41. That meant by Friday the 6th that I had two days to birth the baby, or else I was going to have to give my doctor a black eye, and well, I was already not feeling very lady-like with my baggy sweatpants and hairy legs.
So Friday all day I was panicking about having to be induced and trying to formulate an escape plan, or at least find cheap plane tickets to Siberia. Star Trek and Oreo cookies were exactly what I needed.
PART 2
“I have diarrhea. Bad.”
Hey, if you had a meal consisting entirely of Oreos and BBQ chips, you would be hurting too. Halfway into our relaxing Friday evening, I started feeling like crap. I knew I shouldn’t have eaten all that junk. The ensuing intestinal circus just wouldn’t let up. I told Jacob I was having some contractions, but it was nothing to get excited about.
I finally ran a hot bath to help alleviate this “diarrhea” that kept creeping up every couple of minutes. I started moaning and rocking in the tub just to get by. At this point, Jacob mentioned that you know, I might be in labor.
Naw. No way. Just a stomachache from my chocolaty, spiced-up dinner. He did point out, however, that I wouldn’t get out of the tub because my stomach hurt so badly. It was about 10pm.
By 11pm or so, things were picking up. I was having contractions every couple of minutes and they were starting to hurt. I practiced that silly-looking breathing technique I learned from crazy yoga lady on my workout DVDs. I was still in the bathtub turning kind of raisin-y, but the warm water was very comforting. At this point Jacob was strongly suggesting that I was indeed in labor. He also mentioned that he didn’t care what I thought, he was calling our doula Angie and filling her in. Angie tried to talk to me on the phone, but with every contraction, I had to put the phone down, grab onto the side of the tub, and focus so hard on not flailing by limbs as to cause a small tsunami. Angie was a couple of hours away and sent her backup to be with us in the mean time. Meghan arrived around midnight and sat with us in the bathroom, reminding me to keep calm. She also did the dishes. That’s about what I remember of that.
Labor. Ouch. For the next five hours, I was in and out of the bathtub with intense contractions. Let me just play snippets of conversation that I remember to help you follow the progression:
“Ow! Ow! Ow! Please don’t touch me.”
“Thanks for rubbing my back, but stop. Don’t touch me.”
“Where’s the puke bucket?”
“I peed on that blanket.”
“I want to be done. Right now.”
“OWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWW”
By 4am, I felt like things were changing rapidly. I was so focused and the pain was so intense. Angie checked things out and said it was probably time to go to the hospital if I was ready. Hell yes. Jacob packed up the car while Angie tried to convince me to put some pants on. I asked her to feed the fish.
PART 3
We arrived at the hospital around 5am. The car ride was a blur to me, but I do remember telling Jacob to run the red lights and avoid bumps. I was puking into a bucket as I stumbled into the ER. I walked ahead of Angie and Jacob right to the nurse’s desk and said “I’m in lab…. OOOOOOOOOOOOO…… I HAVE TO POOP!” The nurse wigged out a bit and informed me that she was calling the Birthing Center to come get me. Whatever lady. I’m just going to lean on this desk and scream that I have to poop. You do what you need to do.
Then HE arrived. No, not the baby – the intern of all interns. The gurney-wheeling boy. Poor kid looked like it was his first day on the job and he was scared shitless to have to wheel this screaming, vomiting pregnant lady all the way up to the third floor. He bumped me into the elevator walls with each and every contraction. I want to go back now and find him and hug him and tell him that with heroes like him, who needs Superman?
I made it into the delivery room and the nurse immediately asked me to lie still while she checked my progress. I was 9.75 centimeters dilated – and it was time to push the baby out. I was somewhat relieved at this news because I thought if I had to labor any longer, I would die and it would have to be known on my tombstone that here lays the lady who is eternally pregnant.
The nurse tried to strap an external monitor to me to keep an eye on the baby’s heartbeat, but I refused. I had to agree to some legal crap saying that I was in full awareness when refusing this monitoring. Like WTF nurse lady? I’ll sign anything at this point, just don’t make me lay here while you try to strap a big belt around my writhing belly.
At first, I was relieved to push. After about 15 minutes though, I realized that this was indeed the worst part of the whole thing. Dilating your cervix to a nice 10 centimeters is no biggy compared to the task of forcing yourself to push out the biggest piece of poop one could ever imagine. A human head pressed against all the entrails and extrails below the bellybutton is by far the worst thing God could have thought up.
Jacob and Angie had to plead with me to push because my progress had really slowed down. I got too comfortable on the bed and just couldn’t force myself to push her little skull against the now forever shut Spout of Glory. I tried pushing in the shower. No luck. I asked Jacob to pray with me. I begged for five more minutes. I cried. I even tried to explain to Jacob, using some very choice words, how much pain I was in. Finally, by around 7am, the doctor came in and broke my water in hopes of moving things along for me. If I didn’t start pushing, Angie said, the doctor would want to take some more drastic interventions. Ok fine. There’s no time like the present, right? For the next thirty minutes, I pushed like nobody’s business. I screamed and pushed and pushed and screamed.
Woosh! Poppy Anne came flying out it one gigantic push at 7:37am on Saturday, February 7, 2009. She was stunning beyond words. Jacob’s eyes were filled with tears as he leaned down to kiss us and touch his daughter for the first time. I looked at him and said, “We did it.”
The moments after Poppy was born were blurry, to say the least. I remember asking if she was a girl. I remember the pain of the torn flesh being sewed back up. I remember the doctor praising my bravery then scolding me for refusing even more medical interventions. I remember tears in Angie’s eyes. I remember looking up at Jacob’s bright face. I remember looking out the window and seeing that the sun was just starting to flood in the room. I remember my pink, slimy, warm baby and the way she felt in my arms. I remember love.
Looking back on that day, I wouldn’t have changed a thing. Everything happened just in the right way, time and place. I am so grateful for the support we had. I felt like the queen of the world for being brave and calm (for the most part) and in-the-moment every step of the way.
Eleven weeks later, I look back at Poppy’s birth and think what a miracle. Truly, the most brave, most spectacular thing I have ever done. Now if only I could pop her back in there for a minute so I could drink this coffee with two hands.
