Let Patience Have Her Perfect Work: Silas' Birth Story

As I sit down to chronicle Silas' birth story, I'm wondering where I should start. I feel the need to go back in time, before Silas was even a thought. I always meant to write a post about our decision to add another member to our family, so now seems like a good time.

After Ian was born, we all felt pretty content. His birth was perfection; he was a dream baby and an even dreamier toddler. It felt like it might be best to stop while we were on top. Plus, I love odd numbers, so five boys to make a family of seven just made me happy.  

But a couple of years ago, I started to want a baby again. It could have just been that Ian hit 2.5 years old, and he became less dreamy. Or perhaps I will always want a baby if I don't have one (which could be a problem, for obvious reasons). Whatever the reason, I just let the thought and possibility sit at the back of my brain. 

I casually mentioned it to Mike. He said, "I think five kids is good." I said, "Well, maybe we could still pray about it." He agreed it couldn't hurt. But neither of us ever had an overwhelming feeling to pursue it, so we didn't. However, it wasn't something I forgot about, and with it on my mind so frequently, I quietly decided that that was my answer and if Mike ever warmed up to the idea, I wouldn't need to be convinced. 

When Aaron's bone marrow failed a second time last January, I had the completely random thought, "Aaron needs a baby." It seemed a little ridiculous, and honestly, rather unhelpful since babies don't just materialize out of thin air. 

After that, we went into full-on survival mode. Even if we had wanted a baby, our attention was completely consumed by Aaron's health. We didn't say the word "baby" at all during those volatile months. However, I still randomly thought about a baby, even when all logic said I should have been thinking about other things. Maybe it was just a way for me to take a mental break.

And then one day in April, Mike and I were in the car without any of our kids (I think we were going to look at brick samples for our fireplace, or something else equally exciting). We were not talking about having a baby. I repeat, we were not talking about having a baby. (I had not even mentioned a baby to Mike in at least three months.) But suddenly, Mike was saying, "So I actually had a thought about a baby when I was getting ready this morning. I wouldn't call it a revelation, but I just realized that if we had another child, we would never regret it." 

I can still transport myself back to that moment because it was like the air in the car became charged with positive energy. We didn't need to talk about it anymore. Our desires had synced up. We knew exactly how we wanted to move forward.

It was not an easy time to be pregnant, especially during the first trimester when Aaron's health was still very unstable and required a significant amount of time and attention, but I was so tired and sick myself, yet no one knew I was pregnant, not even our kids. I'm not going to say that we never questioned our decision. There were definitely times when we said, "Are we crazy to add another child right now? Do we really want to go back to the beginning just when we are reaching a stage where our kids are so independent? How old are we going to be when this baby graduates from high school? Do we even remember how to change a diaper?" 

But even though our minds often got snagged by all of the logistics of another child, our hearts continued to tell us we'd made the right choice. And once we told our kids, it began to feel even better. Their excitement and anticipation infused the reality with so much joy. 

In terms of the pregnancy itself, it was fairly uneventful. I got the AMA (advanced maternal age) label this time around, but aside from doing non-stress tests and checking the amniotic fluid levels starting at 36 weeks, it wasn't any different than my previous pregnancies. There were even some conditions I'd had with Ian's pregnancy that never showed up this time, which was so nice.

A couple of week before my due date, I brought up an induction with my midwife. Going off of my experiences with my other babies, I knew that 1) I probably would not go into labor on my own (and I wasn't willing to wait around post-due date to find out) and 2) this baby would probably not be small. Given these two realities, a planned induction seemed like a wise move. My midwife said I could choose any date in the week leading up to my due date, and I thought that as long as I could choose his birthday, I might as well choose one that was cool, so I asked if we could do it on the 22nd, even though it was a Saturday. Marnae said that was totally fine. We got it scheduled. The final countdown was on. 

When I got pregnant in the spring, there was one thing I hoped would be not as prevalent by the time January rolled around: the Covid-19 virus. I mean, I didn't actually think it would be gone gone, but I assumed it wouldn't be controlling our lives (or labor/delivery protocols) anymore.

But as December came to an end, and the Omicron variant reached the west, I could see it wasn't something I could overlook. Cases began to steeply spike, and it seemed like everyone we knew was getting it. As I went to the last few appointments before my due date, my questions about Covid seemed to multiply: What if I get Covid? What if Mike gets Covid? Is there a possibility that I will have to deliver this baby without support? If Mike has Covid, will he not be allowed in the hospital? Does anything change in the delivery room if I'm Covid-positive? What risks does my baby face?

Normally, it seems like I worry in vain about things that never end up happening, but this was not one of those times. One week after school resumed, Bradley got a headache; he was nauseous; he had a sore throat and a fever. And yes, he tested positive. 

With two weeks until the induction date, the timing might have been just about right. But unfortunately, we did not take the path of everyone getting it all at once or the virus skipping over some of us. No, it literally went through all seven of us, one at a time, 2-3 days apart. It was maddening. We'd think we were done with it, only to have another person fall the next day. 

On Monday night, five days before my scheduled induction, I went to bed with a slight sore throat. I woke up in the middle of the night, and it was still there, and I panicked. I couldn't go back to sleep as I counted down the days over and over again and realized that I didn't have enough time, even if my symptoms were mild. 

As it turned out, I had one bad day on Tuesday, after which a little bit of congestion was all that was left. Still though, I knew that even if I was totally symptom-free by Saturday, I would almost certainly still test positive. I called my midwife and asked what I should do. At first her recommendation was to postpone the induction until sometime the following week. She said, "You're not going to want to be in labor if your energy is low because you're feeling sick." But when I told her that I was actually feeling fine and that my preference was still to move forward with the induction, she said, "Okay. We'll test you once you get here. You'll most likely be positive, so we'll just have you wear a mask during the duration." 

But then there was the wild card of Mike: the last man standing. Day after day, I asked him, "How are you feeling? Any symptoms?" And day after day, he was fine. At my book club on Thursday night, I jokingly said that according to our schedule of someone getting it every 2-3 days, Mike should be getting sick that night.

And that's exactly what happened. 

But his symptoms started out very mild and sporadic, so we kind of tried to convince ourselves that maybe he didn't actually have it. He even went and got an antigen test on Friday, which came back negative (not surprising since his symptoms had just started). 

All day on Friday, I stressed about what we should do. I didn't know if they would automatically make Mike take a test if my test came back positive. And if they did, and his test was positive, then I wondered if I should have someone else on call as a potential backup to be with me if Mike got kicked out. Again, I considered pushing it back a few days, but it seemed unlikely that a slight extension would be enough time to get Mike out of the Covid woods. And in the meantime, the baby was getting bigger, the placenta was aging, and I was getting more swollen and uncomfortable. The timing was just extremely unfortunate, and we had run out of time for things to resolve themselves. 

This was our reality: after nearly two years of avoiding the virus, we were going to be having a baby during the two weeks when it had finally caught up with us. 

As I was getting ready for the day on Friday, I kept cycling through all of the variations. It felt a little like some version of Choose Your Own Adventure. Over and over again, my brain reached the end of a chapter where it faced another equally undesirable possibility. I prayed, and each time I did, the same phrase asserted itself: "Why not ask?"

I didn't know exactly what this meant. Should I ask for a negative test? Or that Mike's symptoms would miraculously disappear? Or just that this baby would be able to arrive safe and sound in spite of Covid? Finally I just decided that since I wasn't getting any clear guidance, I would just pray for what I wanted.

That night, my brother-in-law came over and, together with Mike, gave almost all of us blessings. It was all I could think to do besides pray. When it was my turn, there were no words about a negative test or miraculous healing. Instead, Mike said that Covid would only be on the "periphery" of the experience. 

My sleep that night was very fitful. Even though I'd felt at peace when I went to bed, my brain insisted on cycling through everything over and over again at 4:00 in the morning. I knew I was going to regret getting a poor night's sleep, but that only increased the pressure on myself and made it even more impossible for me to make happen. 

At 6:00am, I finally had something to do. I called the hospital to see when I should come in. Unfortunately for me, it had been a busy night with many laboring moms, so they told me to call back at 8:00. I wish I could say I used the extra hours to go back to sleep. That's what everyone else in my house was doing. But I just couldn't do it. I was primed and ready to go. I wanted to stop thinking about how it was all going to play out. It was time to actually experience it.

When I called back at 8:00, they still didn't have an exact time for me, but the person answering the phone said she'd have the charge nurse call me back soon. Apparently, there had just been a delivery, and so a room was probably going to open up in just a bit. 

But no one called back and no one called back. This probably should have been an indicator to me that the day was going to involve a lot of waiting in one form or another. In the interim, all of our kids packed up and left with Mike's sister. Now I had an empty house, and all I could think to do was putter around and clean things that didn't actually need to be cleaned. After an hour, I decided to call again. I didn't want to be one of those expecting moms, but I felt like I had given them plenty of time to call back, and I was feeling so antsy. 

This time, I was able to talk to the charge nurse who said she thought I would be able to come in around 11:00. She still wanted me to wait for her to call and confirm, but that was her best estimate at that point. I left my phone with Mike and went up to my room to see if I could actually fall asleep for a bit. And I think I did drift off for a couple of minutes a couple of times. It wasn't what I'd call restorative sleep, but it was at least something. 

Mike came in around 10:15 and said they'd called with the news that I could come in at 10:30. We were more than ready and hopped in the car before they could change their minds.

I really didn't know what to expect with the whole Covid complication. I suspected that I would test positive since it had only been five days since I had first experienced symptoms. I wondered if the hospital would put me in some kind of holding cell until they knew the results of the rapid test. But when we got there, it was business as usual: check in, change into a hospital gown, get hooked up to heart and contraction monitors, and insert the IV. During all of those things, I also was given a Covid test. The anticipation of this test had consumed me over the past week, but the nurse gave it only the slightest attention. For her, it was just standard procedure, and she certainly wasn't holding her breath waiting for the results. I started to relax a bit. 

My nurse's name was Charity. She had purple hair and was about my age. She was confident and efficient. She said the plan was to get the penicillin going (because I was positive for Group B strep), and then my midwife, Marnae, would break my water. At some point, they would also start some Pitocin. I was quite happy with this plan since it seems like I always need to have my water broken before Pitocin is very effective. It sounded like we were going to get things going in a hurry, and I was all for it.

Unfortunately, that was a false impression on my part.

After Charity got everything going, she checked my cervix. This was actually the first time I had been checked at all, having declined the option at my most recent appointments, so I was a bit nervous at what she would find. I hoped this induction wasn't premature. She had a difficult time reaching the cervix, which didn't surprise me based on my previous pregnancies, but she said I was dilated to a 3, 50% effaced, and soft. 

This was all good news since it meant, even though I wasn't in active labor, the conditions were still favorable for an induction. However, there was one piece of information that Charity relayed but didn't address how it would impact the rest of the day. Maybe she thought I would already know, having been through many inductions before this one. When she checked me, she found that the baby was at a -3 station, which meant that his head was still floating. This meant that Marnae actually couldn't break my water yet. She had to wait until his head was engaged. But Charity didn't communicate this to me, and I didn't make the connection on my own. So I kept waiting for Marnae to show up, still thinking that the plan was for her to break my water as soon as possible, whereas she decided to make a trip to Ikea since she needed to give the Pitocin a chance to do its job with the contractions and bring the baby down.

Speaking of Pitocin, it wasn't doing much yet. The nurse started it around noon, but I made the mistake of telling her that sometimes I only needed the lowest dose to jumpstart the contractions. (This had really only happened when my water was already broken and I was in active labor, neither of which was true at that moment.) So she started the Pitocin at a 2. I don't know if she would have started it this low regardless of what I said, but a 2 basically did nothing for me. 

(Comparing my current labor with my past labors was a theme for the day, and my past experience continued to betray me, as you will soon see.)

I wish I was better about passing hours of empty time in the hospital in a constructive or fun way; this is never a problem for me when I'm at home. I will happily sit down with a book and/or my knitting and enjoy a quiet afternoon. But when I'm at the hospital to have a baby, that's all I want to do; it's all I can think about. So even though I had a knitting project with me as well as a book, I could only manage a couple of rows and a couple of pages before I had to put them both away. Mike and I also watched a couple of episodes of Love It or List It, but after the second one was done, I made him turn it off. This wasn't because I was in pain or uncomfortable. Quite the contrary. There wasn't anything going on, so I felt compelled to stare at the monitors and will something to happen.

This was how we passed the next five hours. By this point, the Pitocin was up to 14, the contractions were regular (3-5 minutes apart), but my discomfort level with each one was probably a 2 or 3 (i.e., not anywhere strong enough to push out a baby).

You might be wondering what had happened with my Covid test. Charity was in and out throughout the afternoon, but they didn't seem to be in a hurry to find out if I was positive or negative. I must confess that I actually saw the results come in on my email. Perhaps I should have mentioned it as soon as I saw it, but they just didn't seem overly concerned.  I kind of wondered if they'd relaxed their protocols since so many people had it. (Side note: my midwife told me I was her fifth Covid delivery in the past week; before then, she'd never had anyone deliver with Covid, which just goes to show how insane the Omicron variant was.)

But around 4:30, Charity came in again, and this time she was fully gowned up with hair net and face shield, and I knew the bad news had been delivered. She handed me a second mask and regretfully told me that I would have to wear it for the duration of the labor. Things immediately felt more stiff and cumbersome, and I missed Charity's purple hair.

I glanced at Mike nervously, wondering if they were going to make him test next. But he just kept quietly sucking on his Lifesavers, keeping his cough at bay, so he could fly under the radar and not draw attention to himself. (He consumed so many Lifesavers that day that there's a chance he'll never be able to eat one again.)

At some point in the afternoon, Mike and I made guesses about when we thought the baby would arrive. I said 7:05, which I thought was a "safe" time, meaning, I thought I was overshooting it and the baby definitely would be born by then. Turns out, labor is one of those things that, even if this is your sixth time, you still can't predict.

Charity checked me again around 5:00. I was still only dilated to a 3 but thinner and (slightly) lower. She claimed she had an easier time reaching my cervix than she had the first time (it didn't really seem like it to me, but I always appreciate a nurse who can put a positive spin on things).

Over the next hour, I had a few contractions that I would describe as "good ones," meaning they were longer and harder and felt like they were getting closer to the real thing. 

Finally, a bit after 6:00, my midwife, Marnae, finally arrived. It felt like I had been waiting for her all day, but she explained what I mentioned earlier: she had fully been anticipating coming to the hospital sooner, but when she spoke with Charity, she knew I needed some time to progress with the Pitocin before she would be able to do me any good. This made total sense to me--I just wish it had been communicated to me; I think I would have settled into the process a little more if I hadn't thought she was going to show up at any minute.

But anyway, Marnae checked and found everything about at the same place Charity had the hour before. However, the baby's head was no longer floating, so it was go time. Marnae quickly broke my water. I anticipated the contractions ramping up after that, so I told Charity I was ready for an epidural.

In the weeks leading up to this induction, I hadn't fully decided if I was going to get an epidural or not. I'd had such a good experience with an epidural with Ian's birth, but that honestly felt like the kind of epidural you probably only get once. But I also didn't know if I really wanted to go through all of the agony of unmedicated labor again. So I didn't commit one way or the other and honestly kind of put it on the back burner for most of the pregnancy. However, when I got Covid and knew that I would be going through the whole labor process with two masks on, it was fairly easy to make the decision to get the epidural.

As I was waiting for the anesthesiologist to come in, I said, "I'm so hungry. I wish I could have a sandwich right now." (I always get hungry during labor, and at this point, the only thing I'd eaten since arriving at the hospital was jello and popsicles.) 

To my great surprise, Marnae said, "You want a sandwich? You can have a sandwich. Get this girl a sandwich!" The shock must have been evident on my face because she added, "It's the anesthesiologists that make the rule about clear foods. But I'm totally fine with you eating. This is your sixth baby. The chance of you needing a C-section at this point is extremely rare. Just be okay with the possibility of anything you eat coming back up if you start feeling nauseous." 

Charity came back in carrying a turkey sandwich that probably would have looked bland and disgusting at any other time but which looked positively mouth-watering right then. I had just cracked the seal on it and picked up one half when the anesthesiologist walked in. I quickly handed the whole thing off to Mike and tried to look innocent. 

Luckily, my experience with anesthesiologists is that they are almost always in a hurry and all business and can't be bothered to notice details like sandwiches in the wrong hands. He quickly launched into information, questions, and disclosures and then got right to work. Within minutes, the epidural was in and soon after that, the contractions started to subside as a mild numbness overtook my lower half.  

As soon as the anesthesiologist left, I indulged in my subpar sandwich. I don't know if anything has ever felt so luxurious. Real food during labor? I thought that would only ever be an unattainable dream.

Fueled by a sandwich, more Pitocin (increased to 18), broken water, and an epidural, I expected the pace to pick up at this point. And at first, that's exactly what seemed to be happening. Around 7:30, my teeth started chattering and my whole body began shaking. This has always (always!) been a sign for me that delivery is imminent (Ian was born within thirty minutes of me getting the shakes). Sadly, my "knowledge" deceived me yet again.

Informing Charity of my history, she decided to check me. I was only dilated to 4 centimeters, but I was 80% effaced, and the baby's head was at a zero station.

We decided to use the peanut pillow, which had been very effective in Ian's birth with helping him rotate into an anterior (face down) position. We suspected this baby might need the same encouragement. 

After I had been twisted and turned into position (with practically no help from myself), Charity started a third dose of penicillin. The previous two doses had gone in without trouble, but this one burned like crazy. In fact, it was this final dose that won the award for most pain of the day. It hurt so much. I was completely distracted from all other things. All I could think about was my arm that felt like it was on fire. 

Charity had left, but I begged Mike to call her back in and do something (anything!) to get the pain to stop. She diluted the medication, added a hot pack, and left again. It took a few minutes, but the pain finally diminished and I could think again.

My chattering teeth would not let up though. I couldn't get them under control. I was in an awkward position on my side, shivering violently, and unable to tell where I was in the labor process. I felt so disconnected with my body, which was disorienting and scary. It made me nervous not to have any medical staff in the room. Since I couldn't feel anything, the only thing I had to go off of was all of the shaking, and to me, that meant that the baby might be ready at any moment. 

To give you an example of how out of touch I was, I literally asked Mike (twice!) to peek beneath the sheet and make sure he didn't see the baby's head. It was frustrating to have lost all of my awareness and be so dependent on others to inform me what was going on. Leading up to the epidural, Charity had asked me several times how I would rate various contractions. After the epidural, she continued to ask me, but I was unable to give any sort of reliable information. 

Charity came back in after about forty minutes. She checked me again, and all of my shivering did not seem to be related to going through transition at all because I was still only dilated to 5 or 6. However, the baby had dropped down a bit more to a +2 station. While she was checking me, she massaged the cervix a bit. Part of it melted away, and just like that, I was at 7 cm. Charity said that when this happens, it is called a "dynamic cervix." 

I told Charity that I was nervous to be left alone because I was sure that things were going to start to move quickly without warning. She switched the peanut ball to the other side and said she wasn't planning on leaving again until the baby arrived. I was beginning to feel somewhat embarrassed for crying wolf so many times over the last several hours. I could just hear them out at the nurses' station: "We've got a mom in #3. This is her sixth baby, so of course she acts like she knows everything. She said her baby would be coming in ten minutes . . . three hours ago." Still, whether the nurse thought I was being melodramatic or not, I was grateful to have her steady presence in the room (and, for the record, she never made me feel dumb for being constantly wrong).

Soon after, Marnae was back in the room as well, and it seemed like she was also in it for the long haul . . . however long that might be. 

Much earlier in the day, Mike had told me it would be nice if I could wait until 10:22pm for the baby to be born, since that would be 22:22 in military time. We had all laughed at the time. "Fat chance!" we said. "Not going to happen!" But as the hours marched on, I wondered if we would, in fact, miss the 10:00 hour altogether. And close on the heels of that thought was another one: What if we missed January 22nd and this baby was actually born on the 23rd? I wouldn't have thought that was even a possibility at the beginning of the day, but now it was seeming more and more likely.

However, when I vocalized my worry, Marnae and Charity both assured me that we'd get him here before the stroke of midnight. 

Somewhere around this time, I became aware of some feeling in my right side. I mentioned this to Charity, and she asked if I wanted to push the button on the epidural. "No, I like it," I said. It wasn't a lot, but it made me feel more like an active participant once more. At least I was sometimes aware of the contractions.

Around 9:30, Charity checked me yet again. She gave Marnae the report: the cervix was all the way gone on the back; there was still some left on the front. Marnae suspected that the cervix might never fully dilate and they might just need to push the remaining lip up and out of the way. (I remember that this same thing happened with Aaron's birth.)

They helped me get into a sitting position. As I went through a few cycles of contractions, I felt unmistakable rectal pressure. I mentioned this to Marnae, and she said, "Yep! It's time."

They laid me back in the bed, brought around the stirrups for my feet, and Marnae pushed the rest of the cervix out of the way. Then she proceeded to coach me through the pushing. This was a completely new experience for me: Ian came way too quickly for any coaching except "slow down." The other births were all unmedicated which meant that I wasn't exactly coherent enough to respond to the coaching, even though I know it was happening. But this time, I was very present and aware, but I also needed the help because I couldn't reliably tell what was going on. At one point, Marnae even asked, "Can you feel that contraction, Amy?" And I had to admit that I couldn't.

So I let her coach me: "Curl and push, Amy! Hold your breath! Push, push, push! Grab your legs! Push! There you go!" I remember being somewhat confused by the instructions to hold my breath. This was counterintuitive to me. In all of my natural labor classes and reading, they recommended letting out a long, slow breath while bearing down. So this was the way I started to do it, but Marnae just kept saying, "Hold your breath, Amy. You have to hold your breath for me." So after a few pushes, I started to do it her way. Not being in a large amount of pain makes you surprisingly agreeable to following directions and doing things someone else's way. I don't know if her way was more effective than my way, but it made her happy, and I didn't really mind one way or the other.

With each contraction and push, the baby moved down a little more. It felt like I was doing real work this time. It kind of felt like we were forcing it to happen, to be honest. But the baby responded well, and after just a few minutes, he was crowning. Marnae said, "Put your hands here, Amy," and I could feel his little wet head. And then, "Give one more big push," and little Silas Joseph rushed out into my waiting arms at 10:07 pm. 22:07--Mike's and my lucky numbers combined.

Silas, as I've already written, did not seem thrilled to be here, but Mike and I were thrilled to have him. The room was buzzing with energy: "Happy birthday, buddy!" the midwife said. "Oh, he looks like Bradley," Mike offered. "Give us a good cry," the nurse instructed. Silas obliged. I think he thought crying was a more appropriate reaction than all of the laughing and smiling that everyone else seemed to be doing. But we couldn't help ourselves. His little presence brought so much light into the room. 

I actually had Mike film the birth. This is the only one of all of my kids where I have a visual record of the very moment when the baby crossed over from one side to the other. I've watched it over and over. It is somewhat mesmerizing to me. Silas was inside me, and then, in a breath, he was out, vacating the premises, never to go back. I feel like if I was a labor and delivery nurse, I'd be addicted to that moment. It doesn't seem like it would ever get old welcoming a new life into the world.

However, as much as I loved the end result, the birth process itself was not my favorite this time around. When I look back at the details, everything went well. There weren't any unexpected difficulties. Silas never gave us a moment's worry during labor, and he arrived safely. My health was good. He came easily and without injury or a lot of pain. But it felt like a task to get him here. It took patience and work. It felt like there was an extra layer over everything that just made things a little harder. I don't know if it was Covid or my age or a new hospital/midwife or January or what. But I've experienced a near-perfect birth before, and this wasn't it. Rather than looking back with affection and pleasure at the time in the hospital, I have instead felt gratitude that it's over and I'm at home with my baby. I don't really have a desire to relive any part of it, except maybe the moment of feeling his slick little body wriggle into my arms. The constructs of the hospital just made even the most basic things (like nursing him for the first time) feel stiff and unnatural.

If that isn't a metaphor for life, I don't know what is. We toil and work and struggle, and this occasionally results in a bright, perfect moment. And that moment somehow makes all of the toil and work and struggle worth it. 

The day before Silas was born, Clark and I were in the car, and he said something like, "It's so interesting. Whatever number of people are in your family feels like the right number. But then, if you have another baby, then that feels right. And you wouldn't want to not have that one." 

I couldn't have said it better myself. A month ago, five kids seemed perfect, but now, I could never do with less than six. Silas has found a spot in our family that we didn't know needed to be filled, and now we can't imagine it any other way. 

*Photos at the beginning and end taken by my sister-in-law, Sonja.

Unbounded Joy: Ian's Birth Story

I'm well aware that this recounting of Ian's birth is three times longer than it needs to be, especially considering the fact that it doesn't have any rush-to-the-hospital moments to keep up the pace. I left in the mundanest of details for my own benefit because I know I'll want to go back in a few months or years and relive it. So no apologies, and I won't be at all offended if you do a lot of skimming or just skip over it entirely.

As I sit down to chronicle the details of Ian's birth, he is swaddled to my chest in the Solly baby wrap (one of the few things I actually purchased this time around). I could lay him down, but I don't want to. I want him right here, snuggled against me, helping me remember the little moments that made this birth so special.

But first, I need to revisit the internal debate that consumed me during almost the entire length of this pregnancy: that of whether or not I wanted to get an epidural?

The question poked its way into my brain early on in the pregnancy, and I have to say, it surprised me. With my other children, I had never even considered an epidural (except for a brief few minutes during Clark's birth). With each one, I knew I wanted to have as natural of a delivery as possible (but in a hospital). I spent the months leading up to each birth preparing to handle the discomfort, and when the time came, I accepted it (granted, among moans and pleas and cries) as a necessary part of the birth process.  And those births were beautiful, miraculous, sacred, and transformative. It's not that they were so perfect I wouldn't change anything about them, but as far as the big, important things, I wouldn't. The intense, exhausting pain contrasted in high relief with the sweet rush of deliverance, and after each one, I seemed to catch a glimpse of eternity and understand the purpose of life on a slightly deeper level.

I'm telling all of this so you'll better understand my confusion when my mind and heart suddenly latched onto an epidural and wouldn't let go. I couldn't figure it out. I didn't know why I would want to do things any differently when my experiences had been so overwhelmingly positive in the past.

And so I set about to convince myself otherwise: I read two amazing childbirth books, both of which advocated natural childbirth and were filled with positive, inspiring birth stories. Those stories called to remembrance some of the precious details from the births of my own four children, but at the end of each one, I said to myself, Oh, that is so wonderful . . . but I still want an epidural. I also read through my accounts of the births of my children, which almost always made me shed a few grateful tears as I remembered how sweet and special each birth was.

I prayed a lot but didn't feel especially compelled one way or the other. And I sought advice, or at least a listening ear, from family and friends. Most people were firmly in one camp or the other, depending on their own experiences. Those who had experienced both an epidural and natural labor generally stayed on the side of natural delivery, which made me wary to get an epidural. Mike wasn't overly opinionated on the matter but finally said he thought I shouldn't get an epidural--not because he is a huge fan of natural labor but because he thought I'd be happier with the end result. But the majority of the advice ended with, "Just wait until you're in labor. You'll know what to do then."

But that's not really my style. If I was going to get an epidural, I wanted to go into the hospital with that as the plan so that I could really take full advantage of it and enjoy it. And if I was going to go for another unmedicated birth, I needed to get in that mindset well before the onset of labor.

I also tried my hand at a pros and cons list, just to see how that all turned out. I had definite reasons for wanting an epidural: I wanted to see what the other side was like, I thought Mike might enjoy the birth more, I didn't want to go through that blinding pain again. There was also a part of me that was frustrated that my "natural" births weren't actually that natural because I was always hooked up to an IV getting penicillin for Group B strep and pitocin to help keep the contractions going, so it wasn't like I was laboring in a tub or moving around with ease like the women in so many of the birth stories I read. I kind of felt like if I was going to be tethered to the bed anyway, I might as well be comfortable.

There were cons as well: the epidural might not work (or worse, I might not react well to it and have some negative side effects), I might feel out of touch with my body, I might not be able to help the baby turn if he followed his brothers' examples and went posterior, I might miss out on that incredible rush that comes after delivery, or my recovery might be slower and more difficult.

But through it all, I just could not rid myself of the thought, I want an epidural. I WANT an epidural. And I finally decided to pay attention to that thought and give it some credence. It had been a matter of prayer from the beginning, and I realized this might be Heavenly Father's way of communicating the answer to me. Once again, I prayed, but this time I said, "I've decided to get an epidural. If this is right, please help me to feel at peace. And if it's wrong, please stop me." And there it was. Peace. I didn't know why this was the answer (and I fervently hoped it wasn't because there would be complications that would require an emergency cesarean or something of that nature), but I finally felt like I could move forward again.

I talked to my midwife, Gretchen, about my decision, and she was completely on board with it (but I have no doubt she would have been equally supportive of the other choice as well). A few weeks before my due date, we also discussed a possible induction.

That too deserves a little explanation (or justification? call it what you will). With all of my other babies, I've been fairly obsessed with going into labor on my own and done everything in my power to make it happen, but then when the time came, each one still needed a little nudge to get it going. With this one, I felt pretty resigned to just being induced. It still felt a little like cheating to me, but I candidly admitted that I no longer had the mental stamina I once had to endure the torture of going past my due date. Plus, an induction came with its own set of perks: we could pick the day, we could arrange all childcare ahead of time, and I could be sure about getting a dose of penicillin for the Group B strep before delivering the baby. So Gretchen and I threw around possible dates and settled on Friday, April 21st, three days before my actual due date (but if I'm continuing to justify things, my 20-week ultrasound actually dated the pregnancy for April 21st, so I wasn't rushing anything too much).

Once that was in place, I basically waited out the rest of the pregnancy. It wasn't that I didn't still occasionally dream about my water breaking and the contractions beginning with a vengeance because I would have loved to have the discomfort cut a little short (in the words of my midwife, this baby's head was resting right on my pubic bone for the last three weeks of pregnancy, and, believe me, I didn't need her to tell me that to be convinced).

But the truth was, I really wasn't getting a lot of contractions. They would come sporadically, at random times, usually just one, and then, maybe four hours later, another one. There didn't really seem to be any activity (or inactivity) that prompted them, and they never came at regular enough intervals that I felt compelled to pull out the stop watch and time them.

This was all fine until my appointment on Thursday, the day before I was supposed to be induced. Then Gretchen checked me and said I was dilated to 1 cm (which was the same as the week before) and about 60% effaced, with the baby's head very low but not engaged with the cervix, which was tilted up and back (in fact, it was so far up, Gretchen had a very difficult time reaching it).

None of this surprised me (I was well aware that the few contractions I was having were totally ineffective), but it discouraged me nonetheless. I wondered if my body wasn't ready for an induction, if maybe I was overly excited and starting things too soon. Gretchen assured me that everything looked favorable for an induction, but I left the office feeling depressed and a little anxious.

Mike distracted me from my pessimistic thoughts by taking me out to dinner and then insisting I go to my book club meeting while he cleaned the house (he's extraordinary, I know!). When I got home around 9:30pm, my outlook was much brighter, and I happily packed a bag for the hospital before setting an early alarm and going to sleep.

The next morning, I called the hospital at 6:00am. Thursday night had been rainy and stormy, and I figured the change in weather had probably triggered the onset of labor for a lot of moms (just not me . . . ). So I fully expected to call and hear them say, "Call back in a few hours and we'll see if we can get you in." Instead, they said, "Can you be here at 7:15?" In a rush, we were waking up kids and getting everyone dressed and ready for school and dropping them off at Mike's sister's house.

Before we left, I asked Mike to give me a priesthood blessing. I was feeling jittery and nervous, and even as he was speaking, my mind was racing and distracted. But it did catch hold of two promises: that both the induction and the epidural would go well, and those both brought me peace.

We arrived at the hospital on time and checked in without incident. As I changed into my hospital gown, I couldn't help but think that except for being extremely uncomfortable, I didn't really feel like someone a few hours away from having a baby. In fact, it felt more like I was just there for a check-up. I don't think I'd had a single contraction so far that morning.

I heard the nurse, Fran, come in and introduce herself to Mike and then begin asking him a few basic questions: Did he want to cut the cord? (He said yes, although it's never been a big deal one way or the other to him.) Would I want to do skin-to-skin after the baby was born? (Yes.) Was I planning to breastfeed? (Yes.) Would I want to use a mirror during pushing? (He didn't know.) What was the baby's name going to be? (??????)

The first order of business was the IV. In the past, the IV has never needed more than a passing mention, but this time, it turned out to be quite the ordeal. First Fran looked at the right side (because I'm left-handed). She pushed and prodded various veins for a few minutes before deciding to look at the left hand and arm instead. Again, she took several minutes examining her options before deciding the right side was better. After a couple more minutes, she geared up for entry: "Okay, here we go." She actually seemed pretty nervous, which made me a little nervous. Unfortunately, the first poke didn't take, even though she stayed in there for a bit and tried to make it work. So she returned to the left side where she again went painstakingly through her various vein choices before talking herself into one, breathing deeply, and pushing in the needle. And . . . nope. The IV was once again a no go in spite of Fran's efforts to move the needle around and get it in the right place.

It was time to call in the reinforcements. Fran got the charge nurse, Susan, to come in, and, just like that, the IV was in and fluids were flowing through it like it was no big deal. I'm not kidding when I say that the IV placement was probably the most painful part of the day--which either shows that the rest of the day was really good or that the IV was just really bad.

I must admit that at this point, I had serious doubts about Fran and considered asking for a different nurse. I knew she wasn't new to nursing, but her IV skills definitely seemed a little rusty, and I could tell by something Susan said to her that she was relatively new to the hospital. But I liked her personality, and so I decided to wait and see. I'm so glad I did because I ended up loving her, and she seemed completely competent for the rest of the day.

After the IV was in, Fran checked me so that we'd have a baseline. I was 2 cm dilated and still about 60% effaced, but she definitely seemed to have an easier time reaching my cervix than Gretchen had the day before, so I was encouraged.

She got the penicillin for the Group B strep going and then started the pitocin about twenty minutes after that (at about 8:30am).

At this point, I was really just hanging out, listening to the baby's heartbeat on the monitor, feeling the occasional weak contraction, and chatting with Mike. I considered reading to pass the time, but the penicillin really burned going in, and I was having a hard time thinking about other things. When I mentioned this to Fran, she wrapped my arm in a warm towel and that helped immensely.

Soon after we arrived, Fran asked me if I was planning to get an epidural. I said yes and mentioned that it would be my first one. She asked what my pain goals were--did I want to avoid all pain completely or wait until I was feeling some contractions or get it when the pain had reached the unendurable stage? This was something I'd already given a lot of thought to. I had already decided, well in advance, that I wanted an epidural. Therefore, I was not going to "wait and see if the pain got too bad." I'd given birth four times and already knew the pain would get too bad. One of my main reasons for getting an epidural was to avoid the pain and enjoy the birth as much as possible. However, at the same time, I wanted to have some sense of where the labor was at before getting the epidural. I didn't want my mobility to be restricted if I was just having mild contractions for several hours. Basically I didn't want to wait too long, but I wanted to wait long enough. I hoped I would know when that point would be.

Meanwhile, the time was passing slowly, marked only by regular trips to the bathroom and incremental increases in pitocin: 8:30 am--4 units; 8:53 am--8 units; 9:25am--12 units (Fran thought this would be the magic number and that we'd see the contractions intensify and come more frequently, but they didn't); 10:00am--16 units; 10:30 am--20 units.

If I'm remembering correctly, with my other labors I think I only needed the lowest dosage of pitocin to kick labor into high gear. So every time Fran came in and bumped the pitocin up to the next level, I felt a little down. I was having regular contractions, and occasionally I would get one that was a little stronger and think, "Oooh, that one was more noticeable," but I can always tell when the contractions start changing over to the real thing because I start to dread them instead of feel excited about them, and that definitely hadn't happened yet. At this point, I was still very happy when the next one would show up and feel very disappointed if it was more than five minutes after the last one.

As a change of pace, I sat in the rocking chair for awhile, hoping the rocking motion would help the contractions and also just because I was sick of sitting in bed. I was also getting quite hungry. I wasn't allowed to have actual food, but jello was permissible because it was clear, so I ate two of those and then felt better. We also had plenty of time to get to know Fran and check up on our kids  and discuss potential names for the baby. Fran was a pro at reading the monitor and pointed out things I'd never been told before. For example, if there's a slight dip in the baby's heart rate at the peak of a contraction, that means the baby is moving down.

Gretchen came in around 11:45am. She was her usual cheerful, positive self and wasn't at all concerned that I was on the highest level of pitocin without much change to the intensity of the contractions. Her plan was to break my water and see if that helped move things along. (I realized that with my other four babies, my water had always been broken before they started the pitocin, so it's hard to say if it was the broken water, the pitocin, or the two in combination that always did the trick in the past.)

Before she broke the bag of water, Gretchen checked me again--still 2 cm and 60% effaced. More evidence that the pitocin was not producing the desired results. Gretchen still seemed to be having a difficult time reaching my cervix and an even harder time doing the amniotomy. In fact, after she was finished, I wasn't feeling anything--not a gush or a trickle or a leak--and I wondered if she actually had been successful in getting to it. Gretchen was sure she'd nicked it and said I should start feeling something soon.

But I didn't. The only thing that seemed to change was that I began to see a little bit of bloody discharge when I went to the bathroom. But other than that, it was back to sitting around and waiting. I pulled out my knitting for a bit, which should have made me happy, but the IV made it cumbersome, and really, I wasn't at the hospital to knit.

Over the next two hours, the contractions gradually gathered some strength and regularity. Fran asked me about my pain level, and I think I told her it was maybe (hopefully?) up to a three or four.They were at least requiring a little bit of concentration to get through.

Gretchen came back in at 1:45pm, checked me (3 cm, 70% effaced) and could tell immediately that she hadn't broken my water. She again inserted the little hook, and this time, there was a swift gush, leaving no doubt that she'd been successful. (In Mike's notes, he wrote: 11:45 - Gretchen breaks water? and then, 1:45 - Gretchen breaks water!) I have my suspicions that if she'd really broken it the first time, the baby would have been born two hours earlier.

Almost immediately, I realized that it might be time to get the epidural. I made careful note of the way I was feeling: still relaxed and in control, but each contraction seemed to be slightly stronger and more painful than the last. I was beginning to feel more dread and less excitement with the approach of each one. I discussed it with Fran. She sat down and went through the entire epidural procedure, step by step, making note of what I might feel at each point and about how long it would take. After the run down, I knew I was ready. I told her to call the anesthesiologist.

I got into position, sitting sideways on the bed with my legs stretched out and Mike sitting in a chair in front of me. When the anesthesiologist came in, he took up his position on the other side. I admitted that even though it was my fifth baby, it was my first epidural and I was a little nervous. He was kind and unhurried and talked me through each step.

He had me relax my head and neck so that they were curled against my chest. After sterilizing everything, he said, "Okay, this is usually the most uncomfortable part for people." And I waited for it . . . and waited . . . but I didn't feel a thing. Not a single sensation or discomfort. I didn't say anything but just kept breathing slowly and sitting perfectly still. Then he said, "Now people usually feel a pop." Again, I waited. I thought I maybe felt something, but it was so slight, I might have just imagined it. Finally, after a few more minutes, he said, "Okay, it's all done!" I lifted my head and came out of my relaxed position and said, "I didn't feel a thing." At first, I worried that maybe it wouldn't work because I hadn't felt anything, but then I realized that if it hadn't worked, I would for sure be feeling something.

I settled back into the bed while Fran placed the catheter. My feet began to feel a little bit tingly, and the numbness slowly worked its way up my legs. I put my hand on my thigh, and it no longer felt like it was attached to my body. I could still wiggle my toes and move my feet though. But the strangest part, and the one that sent me into a little bit of a panic, was that before the epidural, each contraction was slightly more intense than the last, but after the epidural, each contraction was slightly less painful until I was merely feeling slight pressure each time but absolutely no pain. My mind began playing tricks on me: Oh no, the contractions aren't effective anymore. My labor is stopping. This baby must still be hours away from coming. When I expressed these thoughts to Fran, she laughed and put a hand on my stomach, "Oh Amy, these are strong contractions now. This is what labor is like with an epidural."

And so I sat there and marveled for the next hour. It was an entirely new experience for me and one that I was relishing. I watched the contractions come and go on the monitor, but I was relaxed and coherent and just very happy. 

Fran was watching the monitor as well, and she began to notice something that I did not: each contraction had two little peaks at the top of it, instead of just one. Fran said this could be an indication that the baby was posterior, and of course I wasn't surprised; it was what I suspected and feared all along; it was one of the main reasons why I hadn't wanted an epidural. But Fran assured me that they could help me get in a position that would help the baby rotate.

The epidural hadn't had an effect on my appetite however. It was approaching 4:00pm now, and I'd only had a bowl of cereal before I left my house that morning and two cups of jello and some water and juice. Fran said she could give me some Ensure (there is a clear version), and even though a club sandwich sounded a lot better, I took the option I had.

Gretchen came back in at 3:50 and checked me. I was dilated to 5 cm and very thin. She said the baby's head was right there and that as soon as I was dilated, it wasn't going to take much for him to come out. Gretchen agreed that we should try to turn me onto my side in case the baby was posterior. Mike got on one side and Fran got on the other and they maneuvered me into position. I admit I felt a little helpless at that point, but Fran acted like it was just part of the routine, and I think Mike appreciated that he finally had something to do besides look at his phone (with all the other deliveries he was required to breathe with me or let me squeeze his hand off or push on my knees or back). Gretchen told me to turn my chest so that it was on the bed (not an easy thing when your stomach is the size of a beach ball), and then they got an hourglass shaped ball called a peanut ball to put between my legs.

Within just a few minutes of turning onto my side, my teeth began to chatter and I started to shiver uncontrollably. Mike noticed and said, "Uh-oh, she's shaking." He's seen four other cases of the shivers, and they always mean only one thing, which Fran immediately identified: "She's in transition. I'm so glad you noticed." Mike was well aware of how quickly things progress for me when they get to that point, and he fired off a text to my mom at 4:19pm, which said, "I predict 4:30."

Meanwhile, I was sitting there with my teeth rattling together and the goofiest smile lighting up my face. Like a train bouncing along a track, my body was racing to the finish line. I knew that this had to be what was happening, but I could not believe it. Instead of begging for help with each hurdling contraction, I was just like everyone else in the room--completely caught up in the excitement of the moment: The baby is coming! The baby is coming!

Fran asked, "Are you cold?" "Not at all!" I smiled. "I just can't stop shaking." I smiled some more. Fran brought me a blanket anyway. I looked over at Mike and beamed. "I'm in transition!" Fran said, "Amy, if you feel any sort of pressure between your legs, you must tell us right away." "Okay, will do!" I enthusiastically agreed.

At 4:24pm, Gretchen checked me again. 8 cm. The room became a frenzy of activity. They turned me back over to my back. Gretchen and Fran donned gowns, and another nurse arrived. Gretchen sat at the end of the bed, and someone moved a mirror into place so that I could see. I had never wanted a mirror with any of the other births. I found it distracting and discouraging and almost like it added a certain level of intensity that I couldn't handle. But this time I wanted to see it all.

All of a sudden, the contractions felt different. I could feel something right between my legs, and I knew I was ready to push. I told Gretchen, "I'm feeling pressure!"

And then, inexplicably, I started to laugh. To some in the room, it might have seemed like the contractions had triggered some sort of crazy button and I was going a little nuts. But I felt like I was in complete control. I laughed out of disbelief--here I was, about to push out my baby, and I felt like I was on top of the world. I laughed because in that moment I felt pure, unadulterated joy.

At 4:30pm, I gave the first push. Gretchen said, "Can you see his head?" I looked, and I saw a tiny dark circle growing bigger before my very eyes. I was still laughing, and then, all of a sudden, I was crying, too. I locked eyes with Mike. "This is amazing! I can't believe it!" I gave another push, and it was as if I was watching a flower open up in fast motion. His head was out, and then one more push, and the rest of him followed at 4:31pm.

They immediately put him on my stomach, warm and wet and wriggly. Mike did indeed cut the cord, and then little Ian was on my chest, and I was smothering his head with kisses and exclaiming over his sheer perfection, all while continuing to drip joyful tears.

He was the purplest baby I'd ever seen, but one of the nurses coaxed a couple of good cries out of him, and then he started to pink right up. He took to nursing right away, latching on and swallowing like he'd done it all his life (which I guess he had--all fifteen minutes of it!).

Fran couldn't get over the speed of his delivery. "You are the shortest pusher I've ever seen!" she exclaimed. She said when I began pushing, she recorded it in my chart: "4:30 - pushing engaged" and then, when she turned around, he was already out, and she rushed to record his time of birth. She was in such a hurry that she accidentally pushed, "4:31 - breech delivery." I guess the nurses out at the nurse's station were quite surprised: "A breech delivery in under a minute?" That would have been something.

Gretchen stitched up a slight tear, and the epidural gradually wore off without me giving much thought to it (I had a sweet baby to distract me). In fact, as I was nursing Ian, I bent my knee to bring up one of my legs, and Fran said, "Oh my goodness, you can move your leg like that?" By the time I was ready to move to my room, I could move myself out of the bed and into the wheelchair.

In the weeks that have followed, as I've shared how the birth went with friends and family, the most common (and probably most obvious) question has been: "So, do you wish you'd had epidurals with all your kids?"

I can see why everyone asks that. From start to finish, it was about as perfect an epidural as you could ask for. But the short answer is no. No, I don't wish I'd had epidurals each time, even if they'd all been as perfect as this one, but nor do I wish I'd gone without one this time. I'll try to explain.

With my four natural deliveries, I experienced the full physical effects of giving birth. They were raw and primal and also, somewhat ironically, glorious. It was absolutely amazing to see and feel and understand the pristine power of the human body. After each birth, I felt invigorated and strong. I felt like I could take on the world. Not only that, but going through so much for one child transformed the way I felt about God and motherhood and life.

But, it was also very, very painful. And, it turns out, pain can be distracting and block out other emotions and feelings.

With Ian's birth, it was as if I gave myself a new vantage point, one that showed me a different side of things. Having been through labor and delivery four other times, I was well-versed in the stages of birth, and my body still did things the same way it always has, right down to the shaking during transition and the posterior position of the baby, but this time I observed it more than I felt it. But even though I wasn't deep in the throes of it, I didn't feel like an impassive bystander because I knew what I was missing. And because I knew and remembered what each stage felt like, I watched it all unfold with this incredible sense of wonder. I thought my body was amazing when I felt each contraction wash over me like a wave, and I thought it was just as amazing when I watched it happen instead.

I had high hopes that getting an epidural would help Mike enjoy the birth more as well, and it did, but to a far lesser extent than it did me. I guess birth just isn't his thing. That's okay.

Mostly, I just felt overwhelming gratitude: for my body and my baby and for modern medicine that let me just enjoy it. The next day, as the 24-hour mark of Ian's life approached, I said to Mike, "I just wish I could do the last half hour all over again." That's how much I loved it. This birth was truly the cherry on top.

The Other Side: Clark's Birth Story

I debated whether or not  to post this epic story (epic only because, when it comes to birth details, I don't know how to condense). But it's always been so helpful for me to read the birth stories of others, and I appreciate others being willing to share their details. So I decided to post it all. I won't be one bit offended if you skip the entire thing.

As soon as I hit 37 weeks, I was pretty much determined to go into labor on my own. I figured with a combination of positive thinking (and there was never a time when I was not thinking about it) and physical activity, it was a done deal. (Although why I thought I could control it this time when all amounts of wishing and walking hadn’t helped with the previous three deliveries, I’ll never know).

Hence commenced a daily regime of walking, knee lifts, spicy foods, meditating, raspberry leaf tea, and praying.

One evening, we went on a family bike ride, and yes, I rode my bike! I didn’t know if it would be physically possible, but since my mom is always bragging about riding to the hospital to deliver my brother, Ben (it was a scheduled C-section), I figured I should at least give it a try. I thought the rhythmic kneeing of my belly would start off a wave of contractions, but nothing.

Then there was the morning when Bradley was riding his bike in the driveway and didn’t make a narrow enough turn. He rode right off our neighbor’s basement stairs. I leapt off the porch to try to catch him, but I didn’t make it. Luckily, he was wearing his helmet and came through the incident with nothing more than a scratch on his chin. I honestly didn’t know I was physically capable of moving so fast anymore, and afterwards, I was so surprised (and disappointed) that the fear and adrenaline and exertion hadn’t done something in the way of labor.

At 37 weeks, Mike told me I wasn’t going to go into labor because I didn’t want it enough yet. I think he said it just to get me riled up (maybe he thought a little aggravation would be just the labor-inducing trick). However, I think by the time I was out walking in the pouring rain, even he was convinced I was serious about getting the baby out of me.

People kept telling me, “Well, it’s easier to take care of the baby inside than outside,” and I just wanted to sma--, um, politely disagree with them. I had a baby’s head jammed in my pelvis (the midwife’s words, not mine, but very accurate nonetheless). I couldn’t walk or bend over or move. I knew that most likely, even with the demands of a newborn, I would be happier with him out of me.

All along, I had thought if he didn’t come on his own, I would ask to be induced on June 2^nd, which was three days after my due date. But when I went into my appointment on May 22^nd, my midwife told me she was going out of town from May 29^th—June 2^nd. She told me she’d be happy to induce me on May 28^th or wait until June 3^rd, or I could just see if I went into labor on my own somewhere in between. She really didn’t want to pressure me in any way, so I told her I’d talk to Mike about it and give her a call if I wanted to schedule anything.

Even though I would have preferred going into labor on my own, I knew from Bradley’s birth that sometimes it’s not best to leave things to chance. With him, I also had an induction scheduled, but he came on his own three days before. My midwife couldn’t be there, so I just had to have the midwife on call. She and I were not on the same wavelength at all, and there were several things that happened (nothing serious) that I was not happy about.

I looked at the on-call schedule for May 29^th—June 2^nd, and sure enough, on May 30^th, there was the infamous midwife’s name. I just knew if I tried to make it until June 3^rd, the baby would decide May 30^th was the perfect time to come (Murphy’s law and tempting fate and all that). Plus, at this point, sooner was sounding a lot better than later. I called Gretchen and told her to schedule the induction.

Then all I had to do was wait, right? But no. I still wanted that baby to come on his own. In fact, Thursday night I was adamant that he was on his way. (I taught a piano lesson after my appointment and was feeling quite sick and crampy by the time I got home.) Mike had a four-day weekend, and I just thought going into labor on Thursday night would be perfect. Too perfect, I guess.

As we slowly made our way through the weekend, I began to be so grateful I’d been compelled to schedule the induction for sooner than I’d originally wanted. The baby had always been very active, never giving me a moment’s worry about his whereabouts or wellbeing. But in that week before the 28^th, there were two days (Sunday and Tuesday) where he was much more quiet. My anxiety skyrocketed. On Sunday, I almost went to the hospital to make sure he was okay since all my poking and prodding wasn’t yielding the same results it normally did. I just wanted to see him and hold him and know for myself that everything was fine.

On Tuesday, the 27^th, I had another appointment. I was 3 cm dilated and 60% effaced. Gretchen stripped my membranes, hoping we could maybe get some contractions going to help along the induction in the morning. As she was doing the examination, she exclaimed, “This baby has hair! Did your other boys have hair?” I was kind of shocked she could feel his head, but then again, not so surprised. He was, after all, jammed in my pelvis. It made me feel like we were so close to meeting him. Surely such a short distance wouldn’t be too long or painful, right? Ha. Haha. Hahahahahaha.

If you’ve made it this far in this narrative, I applaud you. We’re 1000 words in, and I haven’t even had a real contraction yet. Believe it or not, I’ll be grateful I decided to be so detailed in a couple of years when I’m trying to remember the details surrounding Clark’s birth (that, or trying to settle a debate with Mike).

 39 weeks four days, the evening before the induction

After the appointment, I had some spotting, cramping, and mucousy discharge. I also had some contractions that hinted at the real thing. That evening, I went to my education group and felt contractions through the discussion. I left before it was done because I had plans to go to bed early, but once I was home, I was so jittery and wound up that I didn’t get to sleep until after 11:00. 

On the morning of the 28^th, I woke up before my alarm, which was set for 6:00. I was supposed to call the hospital then to confirm that I should come in at 7:30. When I called, the nurse told me there had been an explosion of pregnant women overnight (sadly, I was not one of them) and to hold off coming in. She told me I could call again at 9:00 to see if there was room for me.

I hung up the phone feeling disheartened. Mike welcomed the chance to sleep in. I felt restless and anxious. I was at the starting block, ready to begin the race, but no one was giving me the go ahead. So I went on a walk instead. Then I ate a bowl of Cheerios.

All of the boys slowly woke up, and we spent our time getting ready for the day. Aaron, Maxwell, and Bradley were disappointed by the late start time as well since it meant a delay to their fun plans with Grandma Jill. 

I debated what we should do. Should Mike go to work? Should Aaron go to school? Was I going to call back at 9:00 just to hear them tell me to call back at noon? 

In the end, we just decided to go ahead and drop off the boys with Mike’s mom. By this point, we were all feeling a little jittery, and it was just annoying everyone to be cooped up in our house. When we got to Mike’s parents’ house, it was 9:00, so I called the hospital. The nurse cheerfully told me I could come in at 10:00. I had to make sure I’d heard correctly: “You mean I can come to the hospital at 10:00? Or I should call again at 10:00.” “No, be here at 10:00.” Wa-hoo! The party was back on.

While we waited, Mike and I went on a walk, but it turned out to be very short. In spite of being just after 9:00 in late May, it was ridiculously hot, and it wasn’t at all enjoyable to be outside. We went back to the house, told the boys good-bye (they were already very busy playing and didn’t even come upstairs to give us hugs), and were on our way.

I told Mike I wanted him to keep a timeline of the important events. He kicked things off at 10:10 when he recorded that we were officially admitted into the hospital. Going in for an induction feels a little surreal—almost like you’re volunteering for torture: Go ahead, start the pain. Anytime now. The more intense, the better.

 

I changed into the hospital gown, and then we met Aleisha, a nurse-in-training. At 10:25, the monitors were in place, although the baby was determined not to make it easy for us and moved as much as possible.

Soon after, my nurse, Melissa, came in. Since I was positive for Group B Strep, they needed to put in an IV so I could get a dose of penicillin before the baby was delivered. I was positive for Group B Strep with my other boys as well, so I was used to the process. Still, I couldn’t help feeling that between the monitors and the IV, there was nothing “natural” about my natural delivery. There’s nothing like carting around an IV pole to make you feel like you’re trapped inside a hospital.

At 11:30, Melissa came in to discuss the plan for the rest of the day. Ideally, the antibiotics needed to be in my system for four hours before the delivery, which meant we wanted to hold off on anything too drastic until close to 3:00. Gretchen wanted to start a low dose of Pitocin, but I wanted her to try breaking my water first. She didn’t want to break my water until the four-hour mark, and she wanted me to be having regular contractions. Melissa said I could try kick starting the contractions naturally through nipple stimulation and walking.

Mike wanted them to start the Pitocin immediately. He tried to convince Melissa that that’s what I wanted as well, but I think she could tell I wasn’t totally on board. It’s not that I was scared of Pitocin. I had to have a little with Aaron and Maxwell (and Mike was adamant they gave it to me with Bradley’s birth as well, but Melissa was easily able to look at my record and settle that argument on the spot: no Pitocin with Bradley). 

We debated the pros and cons for a good twenty minutes. My argument: if they don’t want me to have the baby until at least 3:00, why shouldn’t I try naturally inducing labor? We have plenty of time. Then Gretchen can break my water, and he’ll be here in fifty minutes, just like Bradley’s birth. Mike: haven’t you been trying the “natural induction method” for the last two weeks? Maybe with the Pitocin, you’ll actually have him before 3:00 (which Mike thought would be super duper fabulous).

In the end, I won, but Mike wanted to go on record as saying that he is “a fan of artificial hormones.” So there you go.

For the next two hours, I paced around my room like a caged animal. The nurse put warm towels on my chest, and I tried nipple stimulation while I pushed the IV pole in front of me. The contractions obeyed the command and began coming fast and regular. Mike started timing them, and they were coming every 4-6 minutes. Melissa and I were triumphant. Every forty minutes, I had to get back in the bed so the baby could be monitored for twenty minutes (even though it was pretty obvious to me from his movements and hiccups that he was just fine). I actually welcomed the breaks in bed. It was exhausting to keep up the pace. Unfortunately, when I slowed down, so did the contractions, but I started welcoming breaks from them as well.

During all of this, I became more and more hungry. I knew this would happen. And I had come prepared. I packed a suitcase full of snacks, which I planned to consume on the sly during labor. After reading Ina May’s Guide to Childbirth, I didn’t see any reason why I shouldn’t eat. Honestly, the chances of a problem arising because I didn’t eat were far greater than if I did. So I was ready, and Mike was behind me 100%.

But then, wouldn’t you know it, almost as soon as we got to the hospital, the nurse said, “Only ice chips or popsicles from here on out. We’ll see what Gretchen says about clear liquids,” and my resolve instantly crumbled. My rule-loving self just couldn’t look the other way while chomping away on a granola bar. Mike tried to convince me: you need food . . . just a couple of crackers . . . they’ll never know . . . you knew going in they wouldn’t give you permission. Then he tried to talk the nurse into it, but of course she didn’t have the authority to change hospital policy.

So finally we settled on the popsicle option (which, thank goodness, was an option). “Okay,” I told the nurses, “I need calories to keep me going, so do you mind if I just keep ordering popsicles? Is there a limit? No? Okay then.” And so that’s what I did. Cherry, orange, grape. I tried them all. I lost track of how many I ate. But they saved me. I could be a rule-follower and stay alive. 

By 2:00, the contractions were inching their way up the pain scale. They weren’t anything I couldn’t walk through, but they were making their presence known. I was happy with the progress, but I was also beginning to feel a little hopeless. I was losing all sense of time. It felt like I’d been in the hospital forever and that I would be trapped there for the rest of my life. Even though I tried to focus on the baby and what it would be like to hold him, I couldn’t imagine it actually happening. It felt like I had wandered into some enchanted maze and that I would be wandering around attached to an IV pole until the end of time. Turns out, I’m not that awesome at positive thinking.

At 2:45, Gretchen arrived. She checked my progress (4 cm, 70% effaced) and broke my water. Things didn’t take off the way I hoped. I continued to walk (which, turns out, is even more miserable once your water is broken and you’re still attached to the cursed IV pole). The contractions did pick up in intensity (at 3:07, Mike recorded me stopping mid-stride and saying, “Oh, boy . . . “ He recognized that as entering a new level of pain), but I could tell we weren’t making any dramatic leaps toward delivery.

Overall, my morale was plummeting . . . and fast. Now instead of feeling trapped in a maze, I felt like I had come to a brick wall. Try as I might, I couldn’t picture what was on the other side, and I couldn’t see any way to get over there. I had tried to prepare myself to be patient, but I could feel my energy depleting with every lap around the room.

The next time I had to be monitored, Melissa could tell that my attitude was slipping. She asked if I wanted to start a low dose of Pitocin, and this time, I didn’t have to think about: Yes. Do it. I’m ready. (Mike was maybe a little smug at this point since he had wanted the Pitocin all along, but he knew I wasn’t in the mood for smugness.)

The Pitocin started dripping through the IV at 4:20. I like to think that it was all of my hard work from the previous five hours that made the lowest dose kick those contractions into high gear.

It was about that time I wanted to backpedal. I was still at the brick wall. I still couldn’t see what was on the other side. But now my body was trying to bulldoze through it. And it felt fruitless, pointless. I couldn’t see any damage to the wall, but I was intensely feeling every slam into it. 

I have to preface this next part by saying that with my other three kids, I gave very little thought towards epidurals. In the beginning stages of labor, I didn’t think about an epidural because I didn’t want one. And once I was to the transitional stage of labor, I was just so focused on getting through each contraction without dying that I didn’t have any room left over to think about wanting an epidural. 

But for some reason, this time, and just about at this point, I became obsessed with the possibility of an epidural. And I mean obsessed. At 4:30, Mike recorded, “Depressed. Wants epidural.” That summed it up pretty well. I was begging everyone for an epidural. Mike told me he didn’t think I really wanted one (he was probably right). Gretchen kept stalling: “Well, the anesthesiologist is busy right now. He’s down the hall helping someone who’s delivering twins.” I’m still not sure if that was true or if she just thought reminding me that I wasn’t having twins would boost my morale a bit.

The labor literally felt endless to me. As in, I literally thought it would never end. With every contraction, Mike and Gretchen told me, “You’re getting closer,” and I countered with, “No, he’s not coming. He will never get here.” And I believed it. 

And it’s for this reason that after he was born (spoiler! In spite of my intense belief that he wasn’t coming, he did!), I felt so disappointed in myself. Gretchen and Mike and the nurses were congratulating me on a job well done, and I couldn’t bask in any of it. Why? Because during all of those contractions piling up on top of one another and stretching out for such a long time, I wanted to give up. And I’m afraid that if my body hadn’t taken over and barreled toward the finish line, I would have. And it hurts me to think that for all my preparation, I’m that weak that I can’t willingly endure pain for a couple of hours.

At 5:05, Gretchen checked me again. I was dilated to a six and 100% effaced. I should have been happy with the progress, but I wasn’t. I could only focus on the 4 cm barrier left to cross, and it felt insurmountable. I tried to keep the image of a wave in my mind. I breathed against the contraction while I rode the wave to the top, and then let it out as the wave crashed over. The problem was it was taking longer and longer to get to the top of each wave. And it hurt. Like crazy. I don’t get mad during labor. I don’t lash out at people or yell or swear. But I do whimper and moan a lot. Oh, and I beg for help. 

I was so hot, so I chewed on some ice chips, and then I asked for another popsicle. I ate this one much more slowly though because the contractions didn’t care that I wanted a snack break, and before I had finished it, I was shivering. My teeth were chattering uncontrollably. I laid down, and they put a warm blanket over me. Mike was happy about the shivering because I did that with our other kids too just before pushing.

At 5:41, Gretchen checked me again, but I was only dilated to a 7. Because I hadn’t made much progress in the last forty minutes and because I had begun to feel the contractions in my back, Gretchen determined that the baby must be posterior and was having trouble making his way down. So she asked me to get on my arms and knees for the next contraction. That felt like an almost impossible request, but I knew from my reading that the hands and knees position can do wonders during labor, so I willing to try it.

There’s nothing quite like getting on your hands and knees in a revealing hospital gown during the final stages of labor to make you feel like you’ve lost all dignity. But it worked. I had one, two, three contractions in that position. With each one, I could feel the progression of the baby. Those were some productive contractions, I tell you. I begged for an epidural. “There’s no time! The baby’s coming!” they told me. Before the third one, Gretchen said, “I’m only going to let you do one more, and then we’ll move you back to your side.”

As I turned back to my side, the delivery room became a whirlwind of activity: plastic sheets and tools and carts and lights and a cluster of people. Someone was holding up my left leg. Someone was sitting at the foot of the bed. And I just remember feeling so confused: They act like I’m about to have a baby. Why are they all rushing around like that? They act like I’m going to push. Whoa, I feel like I need to push. I am pushing.

And then Mike was saying, “I can see his head.” And Gretchen was saying, “Slow down, Amy.” And I could hear the gut-wrenching cries coming out of myself. And then they were all saying, “His head is out!” And then, miraculously, unbelievably, at 5:51, the rest of him arrived in a rush, and his soft, warm little body was in my arms. I was pressing my lips to his wet hair and looking at his watery eyes. And I kept saying, “I can’t believe he’s here. I can’t believe I’m holding him. I didn’t think he’d ever come. I love him. I’m so happy. I can’t believe it.” The tears pricked at my eyes, and I trembled with happiness. Suddenly, I was on the other side. I’d somehow made it over or under or through the wall, and the reward was more wonderful than I could have imagined. Even though it was my fourth baby, the joy, the relief, and the awe were just as beautiful and miraculous as the very first time.

And now, just a few thoughts in retrospect:

First, did you catch how long it took to go from a 7, flipping over on hands and knees, enduring three contractions, flipping back to side, and pushing to holding a baby? Ten minutes. Ten. Most productive ten minutes of my life.

Second, Mike cut the cord. He didn’t have any interest in cutting it. But Gretchen handed him the scissors, so he did it.

Third, there was no drama with the delivery of the placenta like there was when Bradley was born.  

Fourth, I had just a little itty bitty tear. I hardly even remember being stitched up. I was distracted by a bundle of baby.

Fifth, my support team was amazing (Mike, Aleisha, Melissa, and Gretchen). They stayed positive even when I was a black cloud of despair. 

Sixth, Melissa took Clark from me for just a minute to get a good cry out of him. After that, I tried nursing him. It took him a bit to figure it out.

Seventh, I’m so glad I didn’t get an epidural. Not just glad. Incredibly grateful. I have replayed the birth a million times. I have thought about little Clark in that posterior position unable to make it the final 3 centimeters. I have thought about the wisdom of Gretchen in telling me to get on my hands and knees so Clark would have room to turn himself around. A few days after his birth, I read someone else’s birth story. Her baby was also posterior. She pushed for over two hours, and finally the doctor used a vacuum to help the baby out. If I’d had an epidural, I wouldn’t have been able to get on my hands and knees. I wouldn’t have been able to feel the progression of the baby. I might have pushed and pushed without any results. I am so grateful no one listened to my pleas for an epidural.

And finally, I have lived that first minute of Clark’s life over and over and over again. It is one of the minutes that I hold most sacred. The light and joy I felt contrasted so sharply with the hopelessness and despair from just moments before. In an instant, I had been delivered. My heart was filled with so much love, I couldn’t contain it. It was a minute of pure, simple, untainted joy—a perfect glimpse of heaven.