The time I spent laboring at the birthing center was actually quite pleasant, or as pleasant as an experience can be while experiencing labor pains.
When we got there, the midwife checked me and found that I was 5 cm dilated. Not bad, but not quite where I ought to have been for arriving at the center. I worried that we'd gotten there too early and should have held out a bit longer, but I was experiencing a weird pain in my side that told me we should stay under the watchful care of the midwife. Every time I had a contraction, a strong pressure emerged from just above my hip, making it feel like baby was trying to make her exit the wrong way. It hurt a lot more than I would have thought for only being 5 cm dilated, but I figured I'd never been in labor before, so maybe this was normal.
I decided to take a walk on the nature trail outside of the birthing center, hoping some fresh air and exercise might help keep me calm. My husband notified his parents and my parents about the status. I was hoping to wait for company to arrive until we were closer to the pushing stage, but I think a miscommunication led my in-laws to arrive almost right after we did at the center. I was glad to have family there, but felt like a watched pot, adding to my anxiety.
For the rest of the afternoon I continued to labor at the birthing center, with contractions getting a little bit stronger, but not much. I tried to eat some dinner but didn't have much of an appetite. We did another check and I was still at 5 cm. I tried not to get wrapped up in the number, knowing anything can change and I could go from 5-9 in no time. Or I could stall at 5, but I didn't want to think about that.
The rest of the experience is a bit foggy in my mind. I think that's nature's way of helping us cope with trauma, because details make it harder to move past the painful experience. I'm sure my husband would recall the rest of this story differently, but I'm going to tell the version that my brain has decided to hold onto because that's what I've got to work with as I sort through this postpartum journey.
At one point I got in the shower to use warm water to help through the contractions. We did another check and I was still at 5cm. I walked around. I draped myself over a birthing ball. Still 5cm. The midwife mentioned the idea of breaking my water, an intervention that is only used as necessary, so I knew she wasn't offering it lightly. Frustrated with how slowly things were progressing, I agreed to the procedure. It hurt a lot. Especially since baby was still sitting high and the midwife had to be a bit more aggressive than she usually would be. If nothing else, this mentally gave me the encouragement that things were going to happen now that the amniotic fluid had departed.
I got into the birthing tub, which was simultaneously the most wonderful and exhausting part of the night. I managed to sleep in the water in between contractions which was heavenly. But then the wave of pain would come on, still throbbing from above my hip, not from my who-ha like I would have expected. I threw up at one point, the first time I'd ever done so in front of my husband.
I got out of the tub and tried to lay on the bed, but no position felt right. Somewhere around 2am, the midwife saw me giving in to fatigue and suggested the drug Nubain as an aid. We did another check and I was still at 5cm, so I thought perhaps the drug could help me relax and allow further dilation. It didn't seem to help. Somewhere around 3am she offered the nitrous oxide, which I tried for maybe a minute and decided it wasn't for me.
And then at some point, I looked at my husband and said, "This isn't working." I was experiencing too much pain from that spot above my hip and after about 23 hours of stalled labor, I wasn't willing to see how far I could push it. I asked to be transferred to the hospital. At this point, I didn't care about my birth plan. I was too exhausted to fight for those ideals I'd had. I just wanted baby to be safe and the route we were going did not feel safe to me.
We packed up and my husband drove me to the hospital, as I muttered several expletives, clutching the car seat as the contractions started to stack up on top of each other.
The midwife met us there, although the admissions staff was confused, thinking she was the one being admitted since she was about 8 months pregnant herself. I still don't know how she had the stamina to stick with me all night.
And then they rolled me into the hospital through the Emergency entrance because all the other doors were locked. We got to the labor and delivery department and I sucked in a deep breath, thinking of the handful of times I'd walked through those doors as a chaplain, saying a prayer as I headed to care for a family who had just experienced a tragedy. This time I prayed that would not be my story.
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