by Constanze Albrecht
It was late September, but here on the coast that meant it was still summer, and so my partner Ayrie and I took a long walk to the ocean on a beautiful, sun-filled day. It was a Saturday, Ayrie had a day off, and we snoozed and daydreamed on the beach, watching seals and seagulls. We strolled back to have lunch at a café, postponing our return to our busy family-filled household. Afterward, we lingered savoring our time together and stopping to talk about our lives under the shade of London planetrees in a park.
At 2:30 a.m., I awoke calmly with my first series of contractions. They were sharp enough to wake me up, but passed quickly and were probably twenty to thirty minutes apart, so I snoozed between them until daybreak.
During the daytime on Sunday, the contractions became milder and I went about my day as usual. As night approached, they intensified, and I was unable to sleep most of the second night. I began to realize they were only ten minutes apart and somewhere in the back of my brain I remembered reading that this meant I was getting closer to actual labor.
At this point, Ayrie and I decided that since everything appeared to be progressing smoothly, there was no need to call our midwife. We felt confident in our ability to deal with a process we believed was natural and trusted that we would be able to handle it in the loving and secure environment of our home. Ayrie had, after all, been present at the birth of all four of his children from a previous marriage—three of them homebirths, including one he delivered himself because the doctor was delayed.
After a sleepless night, Ayrie went back to work and I spent most of Monday in bed as the contractions were anywhere from five to ten minutes apart. They were intense enough that they completely disrupted any activity I would attempt to do, so I thought I’d just stay in bed. Later in the day I decided to walk around the house a bit while they were happening and the motion seemed to help take the edge off. Ayrie came home from work early to sit with me and talk, and time my contractions. We thought that I’d start full labor any minute and decided we wouldn’t call the midwife until then. We checked to see if I was dilated and since it didn’t look like it, we decided to go for some fresh air and a walk to a nearby restaurant. The walk seemed to relax some of the tension of the contractions, and we enjoyed our meal without anyone around us knowing what was happening!
That night the contractions became relentless, every five to ten minutes, lasting a minute on average. They continued fairly strong and frequently all day Tuesday. At 4 p.m., we had a previously scheduled midwives appointment, so our midwife Kristine simply came over. At first she believed that my contractions were just Braxton Hicks. She checked to see if I was dilated, which I still wasn’t (!), but remarked on the fact that the contractions were strong and frequent.
Into the night, as the contractions continued, I was unable to sleep again, and I began to doubt my ability to rally even more strength for the transition to labor and the eventual pushing through the birth canal. The contractions became so strong and painful, I started to cry out or moan. I was becoming so exhausted—after four days of no sleep and continual rhythmic pain—that I started to shed my usual outward composure. Ayrie said he believed in me and he knew that I could do it, but I finally started to cry because something inside told me I needed help, despite the fact that I was embarrassed to appear weak or not self-reliant. I began to wonder if I was just weak willed and unable to trust the process. But I told him all my doubts anyway. The night was very intense—no sleep, again.
Kristine called on Wednesday morning and suggested that I take some painkillers so that I could try to rest. Against my previous wishes not to take any medication while pregnant, I gratefully agreed to the suggestion. She arrived before noon and I still didn’t show any significant signs of progress, even though the contractions were only about a minute apart. She gave me a painkiller and I almost immediately sank into a deep six-hour sleep. As soon as I woke up, I only wanted to sleep more—I still felt utterly exhausted. At that point, because of the unusual circumstances, we discussed the possibility of not having a birth at home, but rather going to the hospital. Completely exhausted and weak, I willingly agreed.
We arrived at the hospital in the early evening and walked to a small, anonymous room where a white-haired, expressionless doctor checked to see if I was dilated. I was only one or two centimeters, so he suggested that we break the water. Labor continued as I tried various positions on the bed, beside the bed, and with a birthing chair, etc. Kristine and Ayrie were in the room with me and ordered a pizza. As the evening wore on, they both became progressively sleepier. Kristine dozed in a chair, and since there was nowhere to sleep, Ayrie went home. A few hours later, Kristine roused herself and checked me again and since I was still not fully dilated, we discussed the possibility of hooking me up to monitors. Again, my preconceived notions of an ideal “natural” homebirth were being challenged, but as the highly efficient and friendly staff buzzed around me, hooking me up to various monitors and fluids, I no longer felt so isolated and afraid. Just as the epidural kicked in and I no longer had to brace my whole body in expectation for the oncoming contractions, I began to relax. It was early Thursday morning when Kristine, watching the monitor intently, said that the baby was beginning to show signs of stress—we were in for a cesarean. It was morning and I phoned Ayrie, fully expecting him not to want to come back to the hospital. After we had hoped for a low-key, private homebirth, it seemed as though the exact opposite was happening: surgery, drugs, machines, all kinds of strangers, and glaring florescent lights. It began to dawn on me that this was all part of the process. It was definitely not how I had imagined it, but it was the particular process of this particular birth—right here, right now, and so whatever it was, I was going to trust it and go with it.
My recollections after the epidural (and whatever else I was getting) are a bit choppy. I rolled into the operating room and a curtain was put at my neck so all I could see was the ceiling and Ayrie sitting in a stool by my head to my right. The cut was made, I could sense the doctor tugging at something somewhat forcefully, until finally that little somebody was being washed and weighed and put into her father’s arms. The next thing I remember was that we were all there in a waiting room together—me on the rolling bed with Finnerty in my arms, Ayrie standing beside us. Then as we rolled through the sunlit hallways, I shielded her sensitive eyes from the blinding golden rays until we were back in what would become our room for the next three days. I don’t remember Ayrie leaving, but I do remember that I was profoundly and completely mesmerized by this brand new human in my arms. I hadn’t slept in five days, and I wouldn’t sleep for five more because I couldn’t stop gazing in amazement at this wondrous being. At some point, Kristine came by and said that she had noticed that the umbilical cord had left an imprint on the baby’s legs as the doctor lifted her out, and that she had probably been caught up on it and unable to descend through the birth canal. I realized then that if we hadn’t had access to all that the hospital provided, either she, or I, or both of us, would not be here now.
During the first night, she nursed almost continuously, every twenty minutes or so. I saw the little bed that I assumed was for her next to mine, but the only time I put her down was when I had to hobble to the bathroom (which was made considerably easier by having an electric bed that raised and lowered, since my stomach muscles were severed and totally useless). So instead she lay in my arms or snuggled next to me twenty-four hours a day. I just couldn’t get enough of this amazing little creature that had miraculously emerged out of my own body. I stared and stared at this brand new being, and at 2:30 a.m., in the middle of the second night, I made this entry into my journal: Finnerty broke my heart open tonight. There is never-ending love in the universe. She calmly watched and sneezed as I sobbed: overflowing with the realization of the love and joy she brings with her in this world.
Constanze operates a fossil-fuel-free gardening and ecological landscape design business. She is also a photographer, and a singer and musician with three different bands.