Since then, I've changed my tune. I'm thinking Caedmon's birth had something to do with it. Now, I am all things baby, and I love hearing other moms' birth stories—goop, gore, and all. I used to wonder why in the world TLC would have such a show like that, if anyone was even watching. And now I get it.
I never did write down my story. I was too entrenched in what felt like warfare in the early months of parenthood, but now, on the one-year anniversary of the night that changed our lives forever, I remember...
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Caedmon was born on April 16, 2012 at 7:28AM, but our story begins the day before. Sunday, April 15. Baby To was already four days late, but I was feeling great, and really, I was in no rush. He could have stayed inside for a few days longer, and I wouldn't have complained; I had so many projects left to finish. That morning, Wayne and I went to church, I engaged in the usual goodness-how-big-you're-getting chitchat that had become common conversation, had lunch with friends at Smash Burger, and upon returning home, I discovered that my mucous plug had dislodged. Quickly referencing my copy of What to Expect When You're Expecting, I read that this meant I would most likely go into labor within 24-48 hours. Got it, I thought, and I launched into action immediately. I started scrapbooking like a madwoman. Project Europe Scrapbook had to be completed before the baby came... except it didn't, because shortly after, at 5PM, my contractions started.
Oh, Contractions... how you deluded me at first. Having never experienced contractions before, I seriously, honestly thought I just had trapped gas, and kept trying to continue to scrapbook... except the "gas" kept getting worse, and I was soon unable to concentrate any longer. (Darn you, Smash Burger, I was thinking at the time.) Wayne was convinced I was in early labor from the beginning, but No, I squeaked, doubled over in pain... just gas. Still, he started timing my "gas", which at first, was all over the map, but soon, my bouts were steadily increasing in duration and decreasing in time apart. When they were two minutes apart, Wayne made the executive decision to leave for the hospital. The next day being a workday, he started calling in a sub for his classroom, but I stopped him. Let's wait until we're admitted, I reasoned, in case they send us home, because, you know, this really could just be gas. Really, gas? Looking back, I realize how ridiculous I was for being in such deep denial. Had it truly been this monster gas, I suppose we were in the right place anyway, because I obviously would have needed some serious medical attention.
But no, it was not gas. Upon examination, the nurse announced that I was already 6 centimeters dilated. I was incredulous. You mean I'm admitted? Okay, I told Wayne, you can go ahead and get your sub. We were taken upstairs to our room. Wayne called the Fongs to get our dogs, I called my sister, Sam, to come right away, Wayne made the requisite posts on Facebook, and then we settled in for what we thought would be a relatively short night, since, as we so naively reasoned as first time parents, I was already more than halfway there at 6 centimeters.
I had decided beforehand that I would try to the best of my abilities to have the baby without any medication. I'm not against medication, but I'm also not against NO medication, allowing for a natural birth to occur. I figured that if our bodies are designed for this, and if women all over the world have been and are giving birth naturally, then I should be able to do it, too. Still, I was not married to this. I had obviously never experienced childbirth before, and also, who knows what complications there might arise, so I was open to medication if I needed it. Wayne and I had a secret code word, "prickly pear", that I would utter if I truly wanted an epidural... but I never felt like I needed it. Never was I even tempted, and so Caedmon was born with the full experience of pain and suffering, but also with my full cognizance and awareness that resulted in an intense elation that is often accompanied natural births from the endorphins released by the body (and I'm guessing sheer relief). I have no regrets; I would do it this way again. But that's for the end of our story. For now, we go back to 6 centimeters.
At first, it really wasn't that bad, which is probably why I refused to believe I was in labor in the first place. The only labor I knew was the screaming and gnashing-of-teeth kind on television and the movies. I realized later that this kind of labor, transition labor, would soon follow. But active labor preceding that really wasn't so bad at all, and I was able to hold pleasant conversation in between contractions, asking Sam how her day was, etc. I did most of my laboring sitting on an exercise ball facing the bed, and when a contraction came, I would stand and bury my face in the pillows on the bed. Wayne was by my side, rubbing my back and soothing me the ENTIRE time.
At one point, when I had labored for what I thought was a good amount of time, I asked the nurse to check my progress, and she reported that I was at 6.5 centimeters. I was devastated, as I thought that I surely would have been more progressed than that! It was so demoralizing that I never asked to be checked again.
Soon enough, my contractions grew longer and were so incredibly intense and strong. With every contraction, my insides seized, lurched, and rebelled against me. I grabbed the railings of the bed, writhed in pain, burying my head deeper into the pillows. Annie, my midwife, came in and told me that I was now in transitional labor. I asked her how she knew, since she had just stepped into the room. Oh, I could hear you from down the hall, she said. Yes, I am a screamer. And during transition, I could not contain my agony. Annie then checked my cervix and discovered that while Caedmon's head was nice and low, it was slightly turned, so she had me lay on my side on the bed, to try and naturally shift Caedmon's head. I was, then, at 8 centimeters.
Those last two centimeters, when I was lying on my side, were the worst, because 1) I could not move, and it was becoming increasingly uncomfortable, and 2) we just had to wait.. and wait for Caedmon's head to turn. Annie even tried to turn Caedmon's head manually, but all it did was force the most blood-curdling screams to erupt from my deepest being. If I were a cartoon, my eyes would have popped out of their sockets, and my courage-hangy-ball* in the back of my throat would have been violently undulating (*Full House reference), my screams, echoing in canyons. That's how I felt. The lowest of lows, though, was when Annie and the nurse left the room for an extended amount of time, and it was just us, left to battle on our own. I felt so alone and defeated, because if no one is around, it means that there is no progress to warrant their attentions. At one point, I even pathetically cried, "Why is no one here???"
The great thing about transition (if there is a great thing) is that while the contractions are strong, they are at least far apart, so we were able to rest in between, even dozing at times, slipping in and out of consciousness, between heaven and physical hell. It's important to note, however, that though I was going through the worst physical pain imaginable, my spirits—our spirits—were high. Wayne was a rock star. No, better than a rock star, he was my husband—the best, most loving, and supportive husband during my time of most dire distress. It was distressing for him, too, to watch me go through such torture and not able to do anything about it. Later, he admitted that there were a few times he had wanted to step away; it was just too emotionally overwhelming for him, but he didn't. He stayed by my side the entire eight hours I labored in the hospital, rubbing my back, giving me water, offering me encouragement, praying with me, keeping me focused. (Wayne also related later that while I was pushing, he found himself pushing along with me, wanting so much to help me and for the baby to come out. Now that's moral support!) And then there was my sister who also toughed out the entire process. We armed her with our camera and told her to snap away, and snap away, she did. She took close to 300 photos, some of which I even grimaced at (her philosophy was to err on the side of more, so as not to miss a moment; we could always delete later). And it was extremely comforting just knowing that someone else who loved us and Caedmon so very much was also there. And so I was bolstered by my family, by God, and by the amazing hospital staff. I felt the pain, but it wasn't bad. It wasn't bad, because it didn't touch my spirit. Transition was hard, and all through the night, we wrestled with this beast, but it also gave me much to be thankful for.
And then finally, finally... in the early hours of the morning, Annie checked my progress, and Caedmon had turned! I was completely dilated. It was time to push.
On television and in the movies (and for a select few who are so fortunate), women push a few times, and then are rewarded with a beautiful bundle in their arms. Just like that. While I knew this was the last phase before the baby would be born, and the nurse told me it would be "soon", I also knew by now that "soon" can mean a very long time when it comes to real-life labor. I pushed for over an hour before Caedmon made his initial signs of appearance. At that point, Sam, wanting to encourage my efforts, exclaimed, "You're almost there! The baby's head is the size of a QUARTER!" I may not have known much about babies, but I did know that babies' heads are much, MUCH larger than quarters, and this "encouragement" only served to deflate me. I wanted to laugh. I wanted to cry. I wanted to tell her to stop talking. But I was too tired to do any of these things, so I just kept pushing, and finally, he crowned. I experienced the "ring of fire" in its fullest magnitude, but it was fleeting, thank goodness, as I gave one final push and felt a large, warm release of fluids and a HUGE relief of pain and pressure.
And then I heard his cry for the first time.
During the last stage of pushing, I had wondered if I would even feel anything other than relief when the baby was born, if I would have any energy left to feel any emotions... But that cry. I will never forget that first cry. So small, so seemingly fragile... and yet so powerful in that it was attached to a real life that Wayne and I had created and that God had blessed us with. And then they placed him on my chest... and I can't even adequately explain what that was like, except that it was pure elation. I was laughing and crying and blubbering, "He's perfect!" "He's real!" "He's really mine!" "Hello, Baby!" "It wasn't so bad!" "It was all worth it!"
Annie delivered my placenta next, patched me up from a second degree tear, and that was it. We had our baby! And it was worth it. And he was, indeed, perfect.
Though I was in much agony, I loved every minute of my birth experience, as strange as that may sound. I embraced my pain, as I suppose a marathoner embraces the pain, pushes on, and then rejoices at the finish line, exhausted, slightly wounded, but reveling in the glory of the moment, pumped to do it again. That's how I felt. It was not unlike the races I've completed in the past, except it was infinitely more grueling and exponentially more spectacular... and at the end, against my chest was not a medal, but a tiny, living, breathing baby. MY baby.
Caedmon, this is our story. And though you have no recollection of the events that transpired through the night, I will always remember—for the both of us.
Happy birth day, to us.
