Jack's Birth Story | Part Three

The contractions continued on the drive home, and by the time we got there, we knew that baby would be coming that night. 

Having decided on a hospital birth, I had also decided that laboring at home was something I wanted, though, we also knew we needed to be really conscious. My other two babies had both come within just a few hours of beginning contractions, so this was not really something we could play around with.

Having a baby in the car is not something I wanted. 

At this point, contractions were far enough apart that I felt I could at least sleep a little bit, and not intense enough to wake me up.

I tied my hair back, changed my clothes, laid down a waterproof sheet and tried to sleep to Friends playing in the background. Adam packed a few things in a bag, and we turned the lights off for what felt like five minutes.

At 12:30 am, I woke Adam up because I could not sleep through the contractions any longer, and they were about 5 minutes apart. I told him to start timing them while we started getting ready to go.

Let me be super frank here, you guys. When I say “get ready to go,” I mean we very slowly started getting ready to go. Adam took a shower. I made a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. I washed my face and brushed my hair. We packed our last few items like tooth brushes and pillows. I put a new card in my camera so it was fresh. Adam made a coffee. All in all, took a while. I had to stop every few minutes to hold onto a counter through a contraction, or lean over the bed. 

As soon as we got in the truck, the contractions went to another level. 

We joked that Adam should definitely not take Capay Road unless we wanted to have the baby in Kirkwood. It’s THE most pothole filled road in the county.

So we drove. Reasonably fast. Adam jokingly asked if he could stop and get breakfast (we did that with both other kids). 

40ish minutes later, we pulled into the hospital and very thankfully got a front row parking spot. We unloaded bags, me with the backpack, Adam with the duffel and his pillow (insert laughing emoji). By this time I could not make it to the front door of the ER without stopping to have a contraction. And to my dismay, I had to squat through each of the three I had between the truck and the door, a whole 100 feet. Adam held my elbows as I squatted, breathed and hustled to the doors.

A security guard saw us coming and lovingly ran a wheelchair out to greet us. I thankfully sat down, and then remembered… COVID.

I needed a mask, as did Adam. He thankfully pulled two from his pocket and I hastily put mine on as the nurse inside the doors told us we had to have our temperature checked and answer some questions before we could come in.

You guys. I was in denial, but I was in active labor. As in, baby is coming. Water is going to break. Somebody get me to the fourth floor because this is happening. Now.

After answering the questions about our traveling history, Covid exposure and the like, our temps were taken and nametags written and the doors closed behind us.

Walking fast, we made it to the elevator as I guided Adam through the hallways of the hospital I know all too well. 

The elevator smelled like pot, as they always do. I instinctively pressed the fourth floor button, my umpteeth time to that floor, but spending most of my time at this hospital on the floor below that in the neuro ICU waiting room. Re- January 4th series.

It’s wild ride you guys, going to the same place for the most joyous days of your life and the most gut wrenching.

Even in active labor, the sentiment is not lost on me.

First and foremost, breathing while in labor with a mask on is impossible. I had mine far below my chin when we reached the floor. The receptionist looked startled as we wheeled up to her desk at 1:50 am. 

The woman in front of me was also in labor, but was standing calmly, signing paperwork and holding her bag. I flashed back to my first labor experience, getting ready to have Joey. Calmly walking and chatting with Adam about our friend who had no idea what he was doing with his life. Knowing full well the nurses thought there was no way I was in labor. 

There was no mistaking it this time. I hopped out of the wheelchair, squatted on the ground, and hastily told the receptionist that this is my third baby, I am not registered but I’m in the system, my doctor is Unterseher and no I haven’t called him. Told Adam to sign my name and let’s go.

A nurse came out of nowhere and off we went. I grabbed a backpack and began walking, while she laughed and said “must not be your first.” We joked about how even in labor, a mom is always thinking ahead, me knowing that the first thing on top of that bag was my nightgown I wanted to wear. 

As soon as that door closed in the triage room, I was naked and my mask was on the floor. No prompting, no “let’s see if you can go pee and get your weight.” No intake questions. 

I climbed on the bed, and our sweet nurse wrapped the monitors around my belly and I hurriedly got on on fours. As soon as Adam came into the room behind me, after signing the paperwork I neglected to even notice, he burst out laughing. “Wasting no time, are we?” 

I laid back as the nurse went to check me, see if I’m dilated and what not. The usual.

I was 7 cm and the ladies, let me tell you, started to scramble.

In a gown I went, walked to a room, having contractions along the way, and happily pointed out that it was the same room Cece was born in just 18 months prior. 

And now, ladies and gentlemen, we started to have a baby.

On all fours, I labored while contractions came and went, the nurses put an IV in my arm and others called the doctor. My water had not broke yet, and they wanted to wait for him to come to break it. 

“As soon as that water breaks, we’re having a baby,” one of the nurses said.

Adam and I began answering questions. And to be super brief and to the point, here were our standards of care:

No pain medications for me unless I specifically ask later. No epidural at all, unless emergent C-section.

Delayed cord clamping. Immediate skin to skin. At least two golden hours (no interventions or interruptions of skin to skin for at least two hours). 

No “eye goop”, no Hep B vaccine.

We would like to see the manufacturer insert for their standard vitamin K injection if it is a boy. If a girl, no vitamin K.

Placenta encapsulation, so please treat the placenta with care (they always do, but we wanted to make sure they put it immediately on ice). 

Many of our requests were standard of care, which made us abundantly happy. Adam and I were also allowed to take our masks off once we were in the delivery room, and most of our amazing nurses wore simple masks or face shields. We love being able to see their beautiful smiles and smiling eyes. It didn’t feel “pandemicky” at all. 

My contractions were very strong and very fast, not giving much, if any, rest in between. My doctor showed up promptly and broke my water while I laid on all fours in the bed, my screaming because frankly, it sucks to have someone’s hand and instrument up in your business. 

According to the chart, I was 36 weeks and 4 days. Making this baby “premature” per the paperwork. But I knew we weren’t. Per standard of care, I would have had my 36 week appointment the next day, when I would have received my Strep B test. And because I didn’t have it, and the danger of infection is there, I was given antibiotics through my IV while in labor. Not the most ideal situation, but Dr. Unterseher was not going to have it any other way, and I knew that I would be able to go home sooner post-delivery if I was given those. Risk aversion here people. 

So, here we are. Everything felt fairly normal. Or, normal for me. Having two other unmedicated births, I have a pretty good read on my body in labor and everything felt normal.

Until it didn’t.

The contractions continued to intensify, but I wasn’t making progress. Baby was not descending, and the urge to push never came. Or at least, not as quickly as everyone expected. 

You guys, this is where things got a little ugly. I’m not going to lie, this was hard. My birth stories with Joey and Cece were a little magical. A little bit too easy.

I was getting my turn with this baby.

Baby’s heart rate began to drop during each contraction. And though it came back up quickly, it continued to drop lower with each set of contractions.

I needed to push, whether the urge was there or not.

This was, without a doubt, the most excruciating thing I have ever experienced.

It was emotional. It was painful. And it felt… wrong.

I pushed, in every position, and made zero progress. I was pushing correctly, but baby was not moving. I was being encouraged, strongly encouraged, to push harder and longer.

“It’s that third push during each contraction that makes progress. You have to give us another push.”

I couldn’t. Like, actually could not. I’m strong. I know my body. I’ve done this twice before. It wasn’t right.

For two hours I pushed, every two minutes, three times. And made no progress.

My doctor got frustrated. I don’t know if it was with me, with the situation, or the fact that it was 3:30 in the morning and he had to wake up to watch a woman unsuccessfully push a baby out. But he left. Said “call me when she’s made some progress.”

I cried. Adam looked scared. And there were like, a lot of people in the room at this point. 

Looking desperately at my nurse, I asked for a break. She obliged, and said “a short one.”

We needed baby out. Heart rate was not improving.

If you’ve ever been in back labor, you know the feeling. I thought my spine was going to be ripped out of my body. I kept asking Adam to put pressure on my lower back, and him and our nurse took turns pushing on me while I again, sat on all fours, breathing through each contraction, tears streaming down my face.

My ponytail kept getting in my eyes. I was leaking colostrum through my bra already. And I could feel baby, there, but not moving.

As baby’s heart rate dropped yet again, they decided to put a probe on baby’s head to effectively get a heart rate, since the belly monitor wasn’t giving an accurate reading anymore. Little did I know, they had other plans for this.

Again, hands up in my business and screams from me. 

And then the hard part started.

I needed to labor. This I knew. But in order for me to labor, the nurses had to keep my body moving. In order to keep baby’s heart rate up, I had to move during each contraction. 

Through each contraction, nurses man handled me into new positions. Rolling me side to side, and back up again. Into a squat position. Onto all fours. Back to my side. 

It. Was. Excruciating.

Pretty sure I was on the brink of passing out, I stopped my nurse. I looked at her and so innocently said, “please tell me exactly what is going on, and what the plan is, because I can’t do this for much longer.”

She told me to listen. And as I listened, I heard baby’s heartbeat as I had a contraction. And I swear, it stopped. It was so slow that each beat felt like it was never going to come. 

I panicked. 

“I need to labor.” I told her I just needed to labor. My body needed to be still. To do its work.

She said that wasn’t possible. We need to get baby moved. Turned around. He was in a bad position, whatever that was, and baby needs to rotate. 

“How?”

She introduced me to a midwife that had come in, who knows when. And she told me that she intended to do all sorts of things, weird positions, reach up on in there, flip me over, all the things.

You guys.

I said no.

It wasn’t even an option. My answer was no. I knew. In my heart and soul. No.

I needed to lay there. To breath through a contraction in stillness. Quietness. I needed to listen to my body. To my baby.

“Give me one contraction. One contraction to just lay here.” 

She unwillingly obliged.

It was 5:10 am.

I contracted. I stayed still. Baby’s heart dropped. Nurses stared at me. Ready to pounce at any moment. 

And then that heart rate improved. And then I groaned.

“I need to push.”

I flipped myself over, spread my legs, and told the nurse, “baby is coming right now. This is what it is supposed to feel like.”

Unterseher came in, and just like my other two births, barely caught baby as he came out. I never pushed. Never beared down. My baby came out just like my body knew he would. Once I was left to let my body do its work.

Jack, as it turns out, was sunny side up but only for half his body. His head, correctly positioned. His torso, 90 degrees the other way. 

My body did the work to rotate him. My body knew. Jack knew. 

Jack was put on my belly, though we didn’t know him as Jack yet. 

I didn’t know he was a boy until we finally cut his cord, several minutes later.

Those moments of not knowing, of just loving your baby earthside, no gender attached, is euphoric.

Jack didn’t have his name until the next day, but Jack was always Jack, as you guys all know by now.

His head was quite the cone, being stuck in my pelvis for a few hours. Born at 5:20 am and without a single complication.

I shivered and my heart raced and I cried for quite some time. More than any of my other babies. The rush of hormones were SO MUCH stronger this time around. It was hard. And wonderful. And weird. And felt so natural.

I have had three unmedicated births. Three babies grown inside my body, pushed out of me to be on this earth. My body grew an actual organ to support them. I made a human out of literal blood sweat and tears. Three of them.

I was overcome.

Each birth has taught me something different.

And Jack, well, he taught me that my body is a freaking warrior. I am a warrior. I was not prepared for my pregnancy with him. I was not prepared for his birth. I was not prepared for him. 

I thought I understood, and was in tune with, my body before I got pregnant with Jack. But there was such a deeper connection to my own self that I was missing. My pregnancy with him forced me to be uncomfortable. To learn how to live in that uncomfortable state. My labor with him was hard. Was scary. Was a moment I needed to deeper understand my own self. To stand up for my own body, be my own advocate. Fight for what I knew my body and baby needed.

On so many levels, all this is true. 2020 brought to light my own intelligence, my own strength, and Jack.  

A really good friend told me that he had a dream about Jack. I won’t share exactly what the dream was, but in essence, it implies that Jack has answers. 

Jack has answered questions I didn’t even know I needed to ask. How magical is that? Jack gave me shortcuts to my own self awareness. My own life work. He showed me that there is no trick to understanding my purpose. It’s just the experience. The experience of a third birth I didn’t know I needed. The experience of being pregnant while becoming awakened. The experience of finding my own health outside of medicine. 

Jack’s birth was traumatic, in a weird way. I didn’t have to push for 14 hours like other warrior women I know. I didn’t need a c-section, like other warrior women I know. I was blessed enough to be unmedicated and aware, to have the privilege, which I am keenly aware it is, to be a mother to three children. Jack’s birth pushed me in my own way. It pushed me to LISTEN to me. To listen to him. To honor him, my son, before he was even here. To give him, and me, the freedom to work together to make things whole and good. The audacity and strength and willfulness to BELIEVE IN MY OWN BODY. I never would have known these things if it weren’t for Jack.

Jack has answers to questions we don’t even know we have. 

As I look at my postpartum body in the mirror (more on this next week), I feel astonished that this is what it is now. Stretch marks and spider veins and loose skin and a size 34 waist (bigger than my husband’s, which was hard to swallow). That grew three humans. Actually, that grew four. Because how I ever considered myself fully human before birthing three other humans is beyond me. Life began after Jack was born. He has completed me. Completed my family. And I can’t wait to see how much my life, my body, and my faith grows as I continue to learn the meaning of life from these children I made with peanut butter and jelly sandwiches.