It has been years since I've used this blog, but I wrote the birth stories for the boys, so I thought I should do one for my daughter as well!
The real question with a birth story is where do you start? At the very beginning would be great, but I think that would be inappropriate, so no thanks Maria von Trapp.
On Saturday, I went into hospital at 1:30 pm. My darling daughter was born at 2:55 pm. The end.
Not enough? I'll try again. (I'll bold the actual birth story, but there is a decent amount of backstory to help explain it all)
On Saturday, I gave birth to our only daughter, who is our fourth child. All three of her brothers were born in week 37, so I assumed that she, too, would be born in week 37. All through the pregnancy, I focused on 37 as the week when all would be revealed. I had all things ready by the start of week 37, except for one and it was stressing me out a little bit. Our second son's birthday party was scheduled for 37+2. Based on the fact that I made it through a wedding having contractions three minutes apart whilst labouring with our third son, I kind of figured that I could make it through the party even if I was in pain.
The party came, the party went. Even with all the frantic getting ready and the release and relax of being done, there was no baby. Not a problem, plenty of time still in the 37th week.
Except, there kind of was a problem. I had gestational diabetes this pregnancy, as I had with my 3rd. The main difference was that now living in Victoria, I noticed that they approached the subject of gestational diabetes differently. Here I was under much higher surveillance. The extra appointments were wearing, as they took time and energy I didn't really want to spare. Home schooling and growing a person felt like enough to be focused on.
When they called for an extra ultrasound toward the end of the pregnancy to find out if baby was overlarge (which can easily happen with gestational diabetes), I agreed willingly if a bit grumpily. I wasn't measuring large and my sons weren't huge, so I thought this child would be no different. And the ultrasound backed me up. So the next time I went in, they asked me to get another ultrasound, this time to make sure the baby was growing big enough. I flatly refused. I had already had four ultrasounds, one of which no one could explain to me why it had been ordered or what its purpose was. They wanted baby not to be giant. Baby was not giant. Baby was growing and that was good enough for me.
It wasn't enough for them, though. See, this beautiful child had an interesting way of hanging out in my womb. She curled around to the right side. Her feet would kick at my side. You could see it. She was obviously over there. Unfortunately, this made my measurements a bit iffy. When you are 36 weeks and you get 32-33 cm, health care professionals get all edgy, even though you can state that your child moves almost constantly and hey did you see those feet poking out over there? They called for another ultrasound which I reluctantly booked in for week 38 (whatevs, it'll all be done by then, right?)
Every time I went into get checked, people would start up with the "your baby is too small" thing which would stress me out, though I'd calm myself down and remind myself that she'd been growing fine and was active. Her cord had plenty of blood going through it. She was fine. It got to the point, however, where my blood pressure would go up when I was at clinic. They then had new things to stress about, GD and (slightly) high blood pressure! (My blood pressure was normal when checked at the regular doc and no protein was leaving me, so she was fine).
So there I was, in the 37th week, hoping that any day would be baby's day and I could cancel all the upcoming appointments. It seemed as though my plans would be fulfilled. Through the party and the days before I had plenty of Braxton Hicks. Honestly, I'd been having Braxton Hicks for months, but now they were coming every afternoon and lasting until the evening.
I spent the Sunday afternoon cleaning walls and other crazy things and was rewarded with a painful Sunday night. But the contractions stopped in bed that night.
Every day I had Braxton Hicks. Every day they'd get fiercer as I did things and back off in the evening. One day, after a long walk with my sons, they got very fierce indeed. It was go time.
No.
I started calling baby "Aesop" as it was like the boy crying wolf all over the place. I'd alerted the friend who was to watch the boys one time when it got painful, and then felt like an idiot when I called off the alarm that evening. The Braxton Hicks started coming when I got up in the morning and would go only when I was lying in bed in the evening. I was tired, mildly pained, stressed and grumpy. Ever grumpy. I got sobby one day, believing baby would never come out. I'd try to help the contractions become real by getting work done, but it just made stronger Braxton Hicks. I couldn't even get out of my ultrasound!
The Saturday of my 38th week came. A young uncle of mine died unexpectedly. The pain of it, the distance that I could not cross to get there and be with my family burned. My grief for my 52 year old uncle who had always been full of joy seared my soul and the Braxton Hicks came on again. I thought the shock had sent me into full labour. It was a hard day, but my grief was not assuaged by birth. My husband loved me. My sons hugged me, but still I sank in grief and frustration.
On Monday, the ultrasound tech was nice and explained that the doctors around here tend to be cautious. It's not a bad thing, I suppose, to be cautious, but man oh man it was difficult to live through. Baby was still growing. All was well. I went to see the doc that aft and he was nervous. Blood pressure high! Baby not a giant! Did I want baby out that day?
No, no I did not.
I was allowed a reprieve of three days. On the third day, I went back. I was checked to see if all the weeks (months) of Braxton Hicks had done anything. Nothing. I left with tears streaming down my cheeks, feeling broken and scared. All of the fear was eating at me and though I daily tried to give it back to my heavenly Father, I didn't know what was happening. The boys had come without help. The boys had come before I had expected them. Here I was at 39 weeks, feeling like I was 42 (as I'd perceived full term for myself at 37, so felt overdue though I wasn't). Here nothing I did made the baby come. Ahead of me was uncertainty and fear. I was to be induced the next day.
All the Friday passed in a bemused fuddle. My uncle was being buried. I was not there. I did not know what induction would do, but I heard it was painful. The fear of the unknown played with my fear of failure to grow baby properly. I went through my day and hoped it would just start. Baby would just come. I played soccer with my young son for the first time in weeks, hoping the running and jostling might do something.
At 4 that afternoon we went in, I tired from weeks of bad sleep (Braxton Hicks may not eventuate to anything but they can be darn painful and they had gotten painful on the Thursday and stayed painful), but resolved to be induced, pleased that the day had come to finally meet our child. The days of crying wolf had passed.
Or had they? My exam showed that I was 3 cm. Come back in the morning unless it starts up. We picked up dinner on the way home, not having anything prepared (the boys were having takeaway as we thought it was a special day). The whole evening was full contractions, even as the day had been. They were intense. They were close. I sat down in the evening to see if they would continue. They slowed to three times an hour, though they were still jaw jarring in intensity.
The night passed slowly. I slept between contractions and waited for them to speed up. They didn't. My dreams were odd and would end strangely. Like, I'm at a lake with someone from uni and we're going to go canoeing - just wait I need to have a contraction -- and I would wake up having a contraction. I tried to be silent so Adrian could rest.
We went in on Saturday morning at 7 as we were instructed. They listened to baby again and sent us on our way - an emergency had come in and there were three other women labouring. Maybe they'd call later, maybe the next day. The contractions stayed strong, but not regular or close enough, so I gritted my teeth and went on with life.
They called again around lunch time. We'd gone to a parking lot fair very briefly to check it out and I'd wandered around trying to ignore contractions while the boys enjoyed the things they saw. When the hospital called, we were getting ready to leave anyway. I said I'd be in after I'd eaten. We got to the hospital at 1:30 pm.
I was 6-7 cm, though my contractions were not regular. They broke my waters at 1:45. The midwife set out to get an IV in my hand. With the complications of blood pressure and GD they wanted it set up in case it was needed. She blew the vein in my left hand and then my right hand. I didn't care as the pin in my hand was much less than the contractions I was having. Fun trying to sit still for a needle whilst contracting.
She gave up. The doctor came in to put the IV in my arm. The midwife moved on to feeling baby's position in the womb. Adrian was doing his best to relax me and started to massage my feet. It all struck me as funny and I made a joke about it being the worst day spa ever. I'm always making jokes when I'm in labour. Because I'm a crazy person. With the needle in, I got up to dance with Adrian as I enjoyed the music. Upon standing I had contraction on contraction. Adrian was amazing as he always is, talking me through all of the contractions. Then I felt the pressure.
But it was too soon. I hadn't been at the hospital long enough. It couldn't be time. I was up on my knees on the bed. I had to push. I pushed. It was happening, that bone breaking pain. I bore down through a couple pushes for her head and it was out. One more for her body. We were just so excited that our baby finally had come. The midwife checked baby out.
"Is it a girl or a boy?" said Adrian. "Check for yourself," said the midwife.
A girl. I scooped her off the bed. They undressed me and urged me to turn and sit. I couldn't be bothered. I had my little joy in my arms. The pains of the weeks melted away and bliss came in the form of a squalling little girl. They convinced me to turn, easier to deal with the fourth stage then. I went back to silly jokes, not able to believe it was done, that she was there, that she was a she having been sure it would be a fourth boy. My legs still shook through the day hadn't been as long as I'd thought it would. We'd only been in hospital for an hour and a half.
And that's the story. The girl who cried wolf now cried in my arms, now comforted in my arms, now warming my heart.
The end.
(Oh and the midwives and doctor that day were great, though the doc did comment on my Canadian accent and how I said "about" while she stitched me up)
