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March 18, 2002
Piper's first two weeks have been exciting, blissful, sleepy, humorous, stressful ... much more. I plan on telling all about that, but before more time slips away, I want to document the story of her birth.
I hope my wife plans on writing up her version of events sometime soon as well. But considering the audience, this will be a pretty father-centric version of events.
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"Marck, can you wake up? I'm feeling something different and I'm a little scared."
It was 1:45 in the morning on Monday, 25 February. I had stayed up to watch the Winter Olympics' closing ceremonies to the bitter end. This was foolish. Laura was already six days past her due date, and I should have been getting all the rest I could before The Big Event. I had been asleep for just over an hour when she woke me.
For 45 minutes, Laura had been having contractions that felt different than other pangs and twinges she had experienced in the past several weeks. While they weren't consistent, they were coming at intervals for the first time. She said, "Here comes another one," and I took her hand. She closed her eyes, tensed a bit. Less than a minute later, she said, "Okay, it's past."
For about the next ten hours, this was my world: Dozing next to Laura, I heard a quiet "Okay" and jerk awake. Noting the time on my watch, I took her hand until the end of the contraction, waiting for her to announce its conclusion. I looked at my watch again and reported the time between contractions and the length of the one just concluded. I then fell back into semi-consciousness, holding in my sleepy memory the last display on my watch and waiting for the next signal that another contraction was starting.
At 9:00 we talked to our doula Patty, who warned us that contractions spaced apart so inconsistently could go on for days. It was vital that we (especially Laura) get as much rest as possible -- even if that meant taking measures to slow down labor. Laura didn't seem eager to slow things down. This baby was a week late, and we had an appointment later this day for a non-stress test and ultrasound. She was ready to get the show on the road!
Still, rest was our first priority, even if it wasn't sleep. Why was that so important? Laura and I had decided to try for natural childbirth. Our best chance to achieve this meant as much rest as much as possible so that we would have energy for the really hard work at the end. We stayed in bed the rest of the morning, rising only when Laura expressed some interest in food.
I warmed up some chicken noodle soup Laura's mom had made and Laura ate this in the living room in between contractions, which were presenting some discomfort in her back. We knew about the possibility of back labor, but that's not what seemed to be going on: Remembering how the agony of back labor had been described to us, Laura just didn't appear to be in *enough* pain. More likely what she was experiencing was tension associated with the anxiety of labor.
Interestingly, for these first hours Laura refused to believe that she was REALLY in labor. In the pre-dawn hours, she wondered aloud if this was really it. Later in the afternoon, she was almost convinced that it would stall. Whether she was trying to be realistic or simply in denial, it took awhile for her to believe that this was The Real Thing.
The afternoon was spent in the living room in every conceivable position: lying sideways on the floor ... hands and knees on floor ... knees on floor, upper body on an ottoman ... standing and "slow dancing" ... leaning against a wall, head against arms ... others. All through this, my secondary job was to time contractions; More important was doing what i could to help manage Laura's pain. The "Bed Buddy" -- an oversized sock filled with rice and available at many neighborhood drug stores -- was our most effective tool, just as our birth class instructor had predicted it would be. (We also used electric heating pads and hot water bottles at different times.) I microwaved the rice sock for two minutes, and during contractions I pressed it along Laura's lower abdomen, as close to the cervix area as possible. In between contractions, either Laura or I would used it on her back for further relief.
Despite all this applied heat, in the late afternoon, I noticed that both Laura and I were shivering. A hand on a cold furnace confirmed that, against all odds, our heat had gone out -- TODAY of all days. An emergency call to the heating guys ("... and my wife is having a baby!") had them there in 15 minutes, and $85 later, we were much more comfortable.
As the day moved into evening, I realized that our dog Finnegan was going to need to go out. He has a remarkable bladder, but except for a quick morning trip, he had not been outside all day. I called Laura's mother Grace and asked if she could stay with Laura while I took Finnegan to his favorite park for a half-hour. She arrived at 6:00 p.m., and I showed her the ropes and split with the dog.
Wouldn't you know it: Almost as soon as I was gone -- while I was telling fellow dog owners that, yes, we were in labor but going nowhere fast -- Laura's contractions went from 7-to-9 minutes and very disorganized to -- Bam! -- 2 and 3 minutes. And SERIOUS.
Finnegan and I were back by 7:00 and the new contraction interval had Grace a little nervous. She was eager for us to call the doctor. But the guidelines we were given stated that we should not call until contractions were 5 minutes apart for more than an hour. So far we only had a half-hour of this 2-3 minute variety. This was Laura's first baby and it likely wasn't coming fast.
I elected to not call the doctor at this point and -- here's the odd part -- ran one more errand to the supermarket. In hindsight, this was a silly move. Some part of me was saying that this labor could still stall, and there were some food items that we would need to get through this next night if the baby hadn't come. So I headed off again, returning with the groceries by 7:30.
The contractions had become MORE intense. Some were less than two minutes apart. And though Laura didn't tell me this at the time, she was even beginning to feel the urge to push.
No more messing around. Laura's mom took Finnegan to the home where he would stay while we were at the hospital. A call to the doctor told us what we already essentially knew: It was time to get to the hospital. A few frantic calls later, we had tracked down our doula, who agreed to meet us at the hospital.
The next series of events took on a Keystone Kops quality as I dashed around the house throwing toiletries in a bag or gathering up other items on my mental list, interrupted every two minutes (or less!) to join my wife and hold her and talk her through the next contraction. We were both sweating now (The heat was working TOO well!), and she was a little freaked by how quickly everything was happening.
When Grace returned, we grabbed our bags, pillows, food items, and other accoutrements (By the way, we took WAY more than we needed) and got to the car. Laura sat in the back with her mom, and I drove.
The night was getting colder and windier, and as I drove down Lake Shore Drive I could see wisps of snow beginning to blow across the road surface. At least we beat the storm. Two things surprised us about the drive: How fast it was (even though I wasn't speeding), and how comfortable Laura was. We had worries that Chicago's infamous popholes would "progress" labor more than necessary, but Laura was so preoccupied with her contractions that occasional bumps hardly registered.
Outside the hospital at 8:45 p.m., Laura worked through one more contraction and then sat in the wheelchair which took her to the fourth floor, where they examine laboring mothers to make sure they have progressed enough to be admitted. WE certainly had no doubt, but we understood that they needed to be sure.
The exam showed that Laura was five centimeters dilated and 90 percent effaced. As far as the natural childbirth plan went, this was great news. We had successfully held off going to the hospital long enough, and Laura was at a point where she would be allowed to use the hydrotherapy tub. (They don't allow you in the tub until you're at least five centimeters dilated -- until then, the warm bath can stall labor.)
While we were in triage, I held Laura through another contraction. I felt a violent surge pass through her. Our childbirth class instructor had talked about the need to succumb to some extent to the chaos your body is experiencing. It honestly felt like there was an alien force inside her. (I suppose in some way there was!) In any case, I could feel her urge to push. The sense of inevitability -- and helplessness on my part -- gripped me. I wanted to ask if there was anything I could do, but my only role then was to hold her and feed nurses the answers to admittance questions: Insurance coverage? ... Social Security number? ... Allergies to medications? ... Emergency contact info? ... I did my best with this pop quiz, but Laura panted out answers when I drew blanks.
In short order, we were in our delivery room. Fetal monitors were strapped to Laura. Our destination was the tub as soon as possible, but our nurse Beth explained that they needed 15 minutes of "tracings" -- recordings of the baby's heartbeat patterns -- before we could do that. But Beth was having an awful time getting steady information and the tracings seemed to take a lot longer than 15 minutes. At the same time, nurse Kim drew Laura's bath in an enormous tub. I had brought my bathing suit and planned on joining Laura in the tub, but Kim insisted there wasn't room for me. I thought of arguing the point, but considering the circumstances, I chose to let that go. I would still be by her side.
Laura was having some insanely strong contractions. I found out later that when I stepped out of the room to get the rest of our stuff, she had asked the nurse what her options were for an epidural. She didn't want one -- she just wanted to know that she COULD have one. Beth told her that she could pretty much have one at any point before she was fully dilated. When I returned, I held Laura through a couple of contractions so strong that they broke her bag of waters. I mopped her brow and read her eyes: "I'm not sure I can do this." It was the only time through the whole experience that I felt fear from Laura. But another vaginal exam showed that Laura was now around seven centimeters. Very fast progress. And finally, we could get in the tub.
Patty arrived just as Laura was getting in, and the presence of both doula and warm water improved her morale greatly. Even though contractions remained intense, Laura suddenly found the strength to work with them. I watched her disappear within herself as she kept eyes closed between contractions. When the next contraction seized her body, she worked through them. Patty and I each held a hand. In between we took cupfuls of bath water and drizzled it over her shoulders and legs.
I need to write about the screams for a moment. They are, in a word, intense. They are unlike any other sounds I have heard come out of my wife. But here's the thing: They never scared me. At one point, I came out of the hydrotherapy room after a loud series of contractions, and Laura's mom looked very concerned. "Is she okay?" she asked. "She's GREAT," I said. And that wasn't some sort of sick joke -- I was serious. There are many types of screams -- from fear, from anger, from deep sadness. But Laura's screams during contractions -- they were PRODUCTIVE. I could hear great work going on. Those screams, combined with that whole "internal" look in her face, made it clear that she was in touch with something primitive -- something that no birth class could teach. She had gone to a place where women have gone throughout humankind's history. Did I feel insignificant? In some way, yes. But I also had a front-row seat for the most amazing feat a human can perform -- and my own wife was the performer. To put it simply: I was in awe.
While Laura was in the tub, Dr. Moreland arrived. We had met every OB/GYN in the practice that Laura went to EXCEPT for Dr. Moreland. "I know this is a bad time for introductions," the doctor said, reaching her hand into the tub, "but it's nice to meet you." Laura had been in the water for an hour-and-a-half by then, so the doctor decided to check her progress. The exam showed Laura to be at nine centimeters.
Back in the tub! The water made ALL the difference in the world. Whether it was the heat, the buoyancy, or both, labor was much easier to deal with when she used the tub. Laura continued to be in her "zone." Patty was a wonderful, calm influence, talking Laura through contractions and instructing me to keep feeding my wife ice chips and electrolyte drinks to keep her hydrated. Laura was so far inside herself that all I had to do was place my fingers near her lips and she would open her mouth for a few ice chips, like the reflexes of a baby bird looking for food from her mother's beak.
It was almost 1:00 a.m. when Laura next emerged from the tub. The exam showed she only had a little lip of the cervix still in the way. Dr. Moreland asked her to try pushing with the next contraction to see if the baby's head might clear the cervix. Laura pushed, and the doctor said that the cervix was very flimsy and would be no problem. "So now, would you like to try some real pushing?" We were in the homestretch.
But pushing took practice. Again, she tried a litany of positions. The most effective progress came when Laura was on her back -- but her back was still hurting a lot. She tried a birthing bar installed on the bed, hands and knees on yoga mats, more "slow dancing," leaning against me while sitting, standing while I supported her under her arms from behind, squatting with my supporting her from behind (that one did NOT work at all) ... The problem with all of this moving was that the fetal monitors were not getting the information they needed. Though we weren't crazy about the monitors' presence, we understood the need to make sure the baby was recovering well in between contractions. In the end, Laura resigned herself to the bed.
Laura's first pushes were not very efficient. When she was on her back, a lot of her energy was pushed through her legs. All of the professional women present -- doula, doctor, and nurse -- assisted in correcting Laura's "form" and redirecting all that wasted energy directly down the center of her body. The screams took another new form: Deeper, more like the sound one makes when pushing a heavy dresser. What strength! Once she fine-tuned her pushing technique, things progressed rapidly.
2:30 a.m. Laura, after another intense push, announced: "Okay, I'm ready for that epidural now."
The doctor looked shocked, not sure what to say.
"Just kidding," Laura said deadpan. We all laughed, not sure where she found the energy to summon up humor after 24+ hours of labor.
A little before 3:00, the baby was close to crowning. Laura would push and the head would peek out but then retreat in between contractions. The doctor gave her the last pep talk: "When you push and you feel pain, usually you stop pushing to get away from the pain. I need you to concentrate on pushing right through the center of that pain."
Laura did this, and the next scream ... Well, it had been described in our birth classes as "the crowning scream." It sounds unlike any other scream. It started as a low, deep pushing scream, but this time the baby's head kept coming, stretching the perineum more than ever, and the scream quickly morphed into one of pain and almost shock.
The doctor barely had her gloves on when she reached to support the baby's head. There it was, all covered in black hair. Eyes closed. The doctor moved the head to one side so that it was lined up with the rest of the body still inside. Laura's next contraction came and she said, "I'm gonna push!" The doctor yelled, "Don't push!" and even as she said it, the rest of the baby seemed to tumble out, all blue, and with it's emergence came the first cries and breaths ... terrifying to the baby, joyous to the rest of us.
"Do you want to know what you have?" the doctor asked. She was too late: I was up by my wife's ear, whispering excitedly over and over, "We have a little girl! We have a little girl!"
The baby was placed immediately on her mother's chest and towel-dried. A blanket was thrown over her to keep her warm. She cried only a short time and then simply lay with her head on her mother's breast -- not feeding, simply breathing.
It was 3:10 a.m. on Tuesday, 26 February 2002.
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On Thursday afternoon, we came home. I was "chauffeur," my wife in the backseat, observing (the recently named) Piper trying out her new infant car seat.
"Do you feel different?" Laura asked.
I did. I had noticed moments before as I drove back up Lake Shore Drive that I felt taller than all the other drivers around me, that my eyesight was suddenly better than theirs, and that I alone fully appreciated the quality of the light bouncing off the glass on tall buildings overlooking Lake Michigan.
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