Sophie’s Birth Story
Thanks to everyone who’s called, written, and left us encouraging voicemails over the past week. We’ve been out of touch with virtually everyone, relying on the phone tree to take care of business, but are settling into our new life together, finally. Sophie is more amazing than we ever could have imagined her being. She is such a good baby, a champion breastfeeder, master of the Latch, which is a gift, as any mom who’s been there knows. She makes me look good. She is her daddy’s girl, content with little more than love and good food and good company.
Her birth story could fill a chapter book, so I’ll save the long version for the manuscript. John described it as “The X-Games of Childbirth,” and I can’t think of a better description myself. We went Monday for a check-up and my blood pressure was well over 150 (pre-eclampsia is diagnosed at 140), just walking around, and the midwife, Clarissa, suggested we get the show on the road. She was concerned that if it were to go any higher, virtually none of our birth plan would be possible in today’s hyper-medical-law-fearing society. She sent us home with a recipe for castor oil and an admission slip to the labor floor, where we could monitor the blood pressure and induce on Tuesday should the castor oil not take effect.
So we toasted to Soph over our last dinner at home. I downed 3 ounces of the oil (not nearly as bad as I had feared), wrote a letter to Soph in the baby book, packed our things, and we were off to Miami. Contractions began on Card Sound Road (the scenic route out of the Keys), on an absolutely beautiful night. They progressed that night and when Clarissa visited Tuesday AM she put me in the shower and encouraged me to walk. We both thought Soph may just come on her own.
By the afternoon I was having miniscule contractions and had not dilated past 3 cm, barely 80% effaced (for those who are not familiar with X-Games rules, 10 cm and 100% effaced mean baby is able to be pushed out). We broke the water in one last attempt to get things moving quasi-naturally, but after a couple laps around the labor floor and a second shower, we started the real induction. I had been laboring for 24 hours, without real food or real sleep. The blood pressure was still hovering at 140. We needed to jump over the edge.
And jump we did. Pitocin is essentially synthetic oxytocin, the hormone that stimulates labor. It’s become almost standard hospital practice to use it for a non-progressing labor. I never anticipated needing to be induced and of course if I had not developed complications, would have preferred to labor at a normal pace. Pitocin artificially accelerates dilation and heightens contractions, which brings with it exponentially more pain. I did not want an epidural, nor did I want to be strapped to a bed with monitors, and knew that for most women, those were near-guarantees and in many cases, a C-section the end result (the epi often makes it harder to push, and the baby doesn’t emerge). Needless to say, the birth plan was quickly falling apart!
However, Clarissa, without ever acknowledging it, knew exactly what my priorities were. She knew more than anything I wanted a vaginal delivery, and she knew that I wanted the very best chance of making that happen. That meant induction, as waiting to term would likely have forced me into more conservative, preventative measures (severe pre-eclampsia can lead to seizures, and she being a midwife would have had to involve an OBGYN). That also meant no epidural, as I would lose that muscle control, not to mention the drive, to get Soph out. The contractions came on like a freight train—so fast, so hard, with absolutely the most incredible pain I could ever imagine. I tried all the tricks I could muster: I kicked the labor ball away, cursed the breathing techniques, and couldn’t get in the tub because of the mandated monitoring. I screamed and flailed and eventually succumbed to a narcotic that allowed me to at least forget the contractions and sleep between them. The anticipation of the next one was the overwhelming thing, and the narcotic left me warm and fuzzy between them, which is just about all that got me through. That, and John diligently untangling wires and IVs and letting me lean on his bad back all night long. He and Clarissa were incredibly patient. In less than three hours I was almost fully dilated. My body was on hyperdrive and had somehow done in three hours what normally takes 8-24, or even more. No wonder it hurt, eh?
I emerged from the drunken stupor long enough to push Soph out. It’s all a blur, and most of it thankfully forgotten (or a bit too graphic for this forum), but the seven pounds of her were just about all my body could get out. There is no feeling in the world like the incredible magic and relief and wonder at having someone hand your baby up to your chest and seeing a real live, whole person, with blinking eyes look up at you. She was a work of art, and she was work, and worth every second of it. As Lindsay, Clarissa’s partner said, isn’t it just incredible how after the pain and exhaustion and distortion of the last few hours, you can simply stand up and walk away? Truly so incredible.
The next two days we were held for observation, as Soph’s jaundice was assessed (her bilirubin, or “belly-rubbin’” levels, as John calls them, were tested) and my blood pressure was watched. Hospitals are, ironically, absolutely the worst place on earth to rest. We were poked, prodded, annoyed. The only positive feedback I got was from John, Clarissa and Lindsay. The nurses told me if I didn’t feed every two hours my milk supply would dry up and I would “starve my baby.” I was told she needed a hat anytime she was six inches from a window, but to get her half naked twice a day and put her in the window, hatless. I endangered her life by letting her sleep on my stomach when she had gas and was inconsolable. Okay, because wailing will save her from eventual bad-mommy doom???!!! We called the nurse Mrs. Doubtfire. She was honestly impressed, though she would never admit it, that I left with a healthy baby with bilirubin levels under control, and a full milk supply, and a husband who eventually told her to shove it where the sun don’t shine. Every woman should have a man like that.
And so we’re home, or at least at my folk’s condo, where the bathtub beckons, the wine is flowing, and Soph has 500 pounds of adults all looking after 7 lbs. of her. She’s a dream, and we’re living it. I could never have weathered the storm without my husband, whom the midwives called amazing. He was fearless, curious, and wonderful, and continues to be so, as he bonds with Sophie. Clarissa Carbo, my midwife, deserves all the credit in the world, for understanding what I wanted and letting me push the limits of pain (and volume) in the name of Extreme Childbirth. I wouldn’t trade that experience, even with the stitches, for anything in the world. I am a lucky mommy to be surrounded by such good people, especially my Sophia.
