On fast, first-time labor: A Birth Story ::
I paced the long, narrow hallway in our single-wide trailer—not our dream home certainly—but a place to grow a dream. It was 3 in the morning. I was wide awake and in more pain than I’d ever been in in my life. An intense contraction gripped my round belly and I gasped, grabbing the countertop and moaning hoarsely: “Thad, I don’t think I can do this.” My eyes watered. I couldn’t handle 8+ more hours of such pain.
An hour earlier, I’d woken up to regular contractions that came at steady 3 minute intervals; 5 minutes later the contractions had increased in both frequency and intensity. One hour later, I was close to transition but too naive to realize I was in legitimate labor.
Sensing that my labor wasn’t exactly following the course outlined in all the birthing books I’d read during pregnancy—I rasped out to Thad to “call my mother.” He did. Since we hadn’t packed a birth bag to bring to the hospital (I know, right?!) he scrambled madly around our small space, trying desperately to find clean clothes that would meet muster. Like me, he was ignorant to what was happening in front of him.
Ten minutes later, my mom came barreling down our driveway—as Thad succinctly put it—‘like a bat out-of-you-know where.’ She took one look at me—now on my hands and knees outside our trailer as this was the only position I was “comfortable” in—and started barking orders.
Somehow, my mom and Thad tumbled me into her backseat and I remained on my hands and knees trying to breathe through each contraction. Each contraction rose and fell and bumped into the next, propelling labor forward until I said from the backseat: “I think I have to push.”
From the driver’s seat, my mom whirled around and shouted:
“RACHEL!!! DON’T push! Whatever you do, DON’T push!!
I wailed, still from the backseat on my hands and knees: “HOW do I NOT push??! I mean, telling a laboring woman to NOT push when she feels the urge is the worst thing a person can tell her. #AMIRIGHT. At this juncture my mother directed her attention to Thad and said directly, firmly:
“DO NOT let her push, Thad. Do you understand?! She can’t push yet!
Incredulous, dumfounded and thinking—though he wisely kept it to himself at the time—How do I keep her from pushing??—he obeyed and talked me through each contraction, each pushing urge until we arrived at the hospital 10 minutes later where we were met by an emergency medical team and a much-needed gurney.
Shortly thereafter, I found myself in a hospital room with the “all clear” to push. I did and 15 minutes later she was in my arms at 4:41 AM. Tiny. Perfect. Utterly beautiful. Mine. Ours.
I share my daughter’s birth story for several reasons: one, it makes me smile. Her lightning fast and early arrival said much about the person she is today; two, it makes me teary. She’s a wee one no longer and remembering the beginning of her story, our shared story as mother and daughter, makes me happy-sad. And finally, I want to share my stories with you, my readers, my clients, my friends.
Thanks so much for reading, and please, share your story(ies) in the comments below.
Rachel
Postscript: Included in this story is ambulance that we hailed and apparently passed—proverbial ships passing in the night— as my mom drove 90 mph to the hospital. For myself, I remember only inky darkness and the knowledge that I was experiencing excruciating pain.