My Birth Story

The unfolding story of how my daughter entered the world and how my yoga practice carried me through the intensity.

 

Chapter 1: Broken Water

"Imagine she comes tonight," I joke to Russ as we sit across from each other, sharing a chicken caesar salad, meatballs, a margherita pizza, and a big pretzel with 3 different dipping sauces (we both favored the honey mustard). It's our 3 year wedding anniversary.

I head to the bathroom mid-meal, not knowing if I really have to pee or if she's just sitting on top of my bladder.
"When are you due!" asks a sweet stranger, coming out of the bathroom as I walk in.  
"6 days!" I smile.
"You look amazing." 
I do look amazing. I'm wearing the skims maternity dress. It hugs my bump so beautifully, and I feel the most feminine that I've ever felt in my entire life. My hair is slicked back in the front, my curls pulled together in the half-up, half-down style that all curly girls swear by.

Turns out I did have to pee. I linger in the bathroom a little, turning left and right in front of the full body mirror. I swear my bump dropped today.

I get back to the table + take another sip of my frozen lemonade. It's a little too sweet for me, which says a lot because I LOVE sweet, but she dances in my belly with every sip. And I love that feeling. So I keep sipping.

We finish our meal and pay. I hoist myself up into the passenger seat. We're home in 10 minutes.

We walk in the door and greet the cats before sitting on the couch + scrolling for a bit. We're each in our own little world, occasionally colliding them with a phone flip + a "watch this." 

After a solid 15 minutes of brain rot, I put my phone down and crawl over to Pepper, who's made herself comfortable in a ball on the couch. I put my nose up to hers + nuzzle, the way I always do. The way that prompts her to lick my nose + start to purr. And she does.

I shift positions a little bit. 
"What the?" I say, silently asking myself if I just peed in my pants.

"What's going on?" Russ asks, putting his phone down.
I don't have words, because I'm not quite sure what's going on. But I do furrow my brows and pout my lips, locking eyes with my husband of 3 years on the dot, a non-verbal way of saying, "something is definitely going on."

I go to the bathroom and empty my bladder.
I stand up.
I pee in my pants again.

"I think my water's breaking," I call to Russ, not quite believing it.
"Okay!" he says, coming to my side.

I start shaking. Is it adrenaline? Is it nerves? Is it a hormonal fluctuation? It's probably all of the above. But my water is definitely breaking. And now I believe it.

Russ lines the house with towels.
I'm half cracking up, half trembling.
"My hospital bag still isn't packed!!!!" I say with a huge smile + chattering teeth.

"Call the doula!" Russ says.
I text Avrey + let her know that my water's breaking.

It's 9:30pm.
Our typical bed time.

I remember my plan: labor at home as long as possible. That will be easy! I'm not having any contractions. We'll pack the hospital bag and get into bed. I'm a first time mom, it can be a while before labor really starts. We've got this.

I sit on the floor of our room, on top of one of the 59 towels that Russ laid out all over the house, as I direct him on what to pack in my hospital bag. The thing is, I had every intention of packing it the next day. I had a checklist on my phone and everything! A few Amazon packages would arrive in the morning with things that people on the internet ~swore~ were hospital bag non-negotiables. We'll see how non-negotiable those things really are, because they're not gonna get here in time.

The hospital bags are packed + the car is loaded. It's time to get some sleep. Russ puts a towel down on my side of the bed. I get in and shut my eyes.

There's no way in hell I'm going to fall asleep.

I lay there for an hour before I feel my first contraction. It's 11:30p now, and it feels like mild period cramps. "No big deal!" I think, breathing through them with ease.

The contractions are getting a little bit more intense now, 30 minutes in. I wake up Russ and tell him, "Each contraction lasts for about 3 deep breaths. As they continue to get more intense, I need you to breathe with me and to remind me that I can do anything for 3 deep breaths." 
"Of course, babe," he agrees, and follows through on that for the next 60 minutes. 

It's 1am now, and the contractions are getting more intense. I tiptoe out of our room and call my midwives. The midwife on call tells me that when I'm ready to head to the hospital I should go. I tell her I will try to stay home longer, and will call her when I'm on my way in. 

Over the next 30 minutes, things are ramping up. I can no longer stand through contractions. I have to hold onto the sink and get into a deep malasana, rocking from side to side. If I lose count of my breath, things get really hard. The breath is my anchor. There are noises coming from the depths of my throat that I didn't even know I could make. My back hurts so bad. I must be about 6cm by now. This must be active labor.

I tell Russ that it's go-time. I can no longer talk through the contractions. We say bye to the cats and get into the car. By the time we pull up to the hospital it's 2:00am. 

The nurse comes in and takes my vitals, asking me questions that I make Russ answer because I can barely form words at this point. She tells me that my midwife will be there soon for a cervical check and that I should change into the hospital gown now.

"I have my own hospital gown that I want to labor in," I say between contractions.
"You can change into that later," the nurse responds, "things may get a little messy."
What the hell am I in for?

Russ comes in the bathroom with me to help me change into my gown. My contractions are about 90 seconds apart, and I'm desperate for counter pressure with each one of them. He knows his job. We have a system down at this point. When he starts hearing those primal noises, he squeezes my sacrum. Neither one of us getting a break from this physical work.

Finally, my midwife arrives. 
It's time for my cervical check. 
This will tell me how far along I am.
Judging by the pain, I've gotta be pretty far along.
I'd guess 7cm dilated. 

She puts what feels like her entire forearm into my body and I've never experienced such discomfort. It feels like she's examining me for 28 years. I'm squirming, maybe even yelling at her to gtfo, I don't remember. 
But I do remember what she said afterwards.

"You're 3 cm."
F*ck.

 

Chapter 2: Counter Pressure 

They move me down the hall into a room. My room.
The room that I will meet my daughter in. Is what I think to myself, smiling between the intensity of the contractions. 

There are no windows in the room, but there is a peanut ball.
Perfect.
I’ve practiced a bunch of labor positions in pelvic floor PT with the peanut ball! This is going to be great. Even though these contractions are really intense, I prepared for this. I’m ready for this. I’ll meet my daughter today.

Russ lines our bags up along a bench in the room and plugs in my sunset lamp. The room lights up with this orange hue and it instantly feels calm in there. The nurse tries to strap a band around my waist to measure my contractions and the baby’s heart rate, but I stop her in her tracks and motion for Russ. This is a big contraction. I need counter pressure NOW.

The contraction eases up and I let my breath return back to normal. For 90 seconds, at least, until the next one comes. Ever since my cervical exam the contractions have gotten even more intense. That’s because during the exam, more of my water broke, so the baby has less cushioning in there and I’m feeling things more intensely. I think that’s how this works. All I know is my lower back hurts BADLY.

“I can’t believe I’m only 3cm,” I say to my midwife, completely exhausted.
“Don’t say only” she corrects me, “you are 3cm dilated. You’re also 80% effaced, which is AMAZING.”

This mentally helps a little bit, but I can’t help but fear what’s coming. If 3cm is this uncomfortable, how the hell am I supposed to get to 10? I’m running on no sleep. 

My breath remains my foundation, but my anchor now is Russ. And the counter pressure. Every 90 seconds he presses my sacrum together. Forcefully. We navigate the contractions together from 2a-7a. Both of us laboring. Both of us essential on the quest to meet our daughter. 

Two become three around 7am. 

No, not our daughter, our doula. 

Avrey walks in and I instantly feel calmer. She has that air about her. She immediately starts laboring with me, tapping Russ out for a breather. She takes over so effortlessly, giving me the counter pressure and affirmations I need to keep going. Between contractions, she hangs up these affirmation cards on the wall under the clock.

My surges cannot be stronger than me, they are me.

My body softens and I let the sensations rush over me.

When I look to the left, I see them. I’m reminded that this is all temporary. That I am strong and capable. That I was made for this.

The next few hours are a vortex. I move around the room as best as I can, which is nowhere near what I planned for. In my birth plan, I was to be prancing around the room, breathing with ease, using the peanut ball, birth ball, shower, and all the different configurations of the hospital bed to help find comfort and breathe this baby into the world. Instead, I’m only able to walk 3 steps to sit on the toilet (aka the “dilation station" lmao), hurling my upper body over Russ and demanding counter pressure. It’s so intense that it literally takes my breath away. If I don’t have counter pressure I feel like I will die.

I squeeze the birth comb so hard that it leaves indents on my skin. Redirect the intensity. It's not really helping, but it becomes a tiny source of comfort. My little buddy, the comb.

The nurse comes in and says I need to get back in bed; the monitor isn’t picking up the baby’s heart rate and they need to keep an eye on her. The monitor becomes my arch nemesis. It falls off every 3 seconds. We try multiple different ones. Every time the nurse comes to adjust it I have to push her away and reach for Russ or Avrey to get me through the next contraction. It feels like battle. It is battle. But it’s not one I’m in alone. 

At 11am we decide to do another cervical check.
I must be close to 10cm by now.
My back feels like it’s breaking.

The midwife performs the exam.
4-5cm.
You have GOT to be kidding me.

“I need an epidural,” I say with tears in my eyes, locked in on Russ.
“Let’s take a moment and think about it before deciding.” he says to me. 

He says this because I told him to. “I am going unmedicated, and if I try to back out of that, challenge me. Make sure it’s what I really need.”

The nurse gives us time to think it over.

I don’t need time to think it over.
I need that f*cking epidural. 

 

Chapter 3: Sweet Relief

Although I know I need the epidural, I still feel like I failed. I feel mentally and physically weak.

I have poured SO MUCH TIME into the mental and physical training for birth over these past nine months. Pelvic floor therapy + prenatal yoga to practice labor positions + breathing. Weekly guided meditations focused on transcending pain. I’ve turned the shower all-the-way cold before getting out. I’ve recited affirmations. I’ve literally trained for this, and now I’m just giving up.

One of the most profound teachings of yoga for me is Yoga Sutra 1.12: the mind's fluctuations are stilled through a balance of abhyasa (consistent practice) and vairagya (non-attachment). 

I’m really good at consistent practice. I’m Type A. I’m driven. I’m disciplined. I’m consistent. When I say I’m going to do something, I do it. That’s abhyasa. That was all of the work I put into training for an unmedicated birth.

What I’m not really good at is non-attachment. Vairagya. Accepting the outcomes when they’re not what I expected/wanted/worked for. 

They say the lessons that you need to learn will show up in your life until you learn them, and that’s what’s happening for me here. How can I let go of the outcome that I’ve spent so many months working towards? 

We learn that the baby’s in a weird position. She was in a perfect position just last week! But not anymore, not when it’s go-time. She’s what we call “sunny side up”; her spine is along my spine, her head is facing front, the back of her head is pressing directly on my spine + tailbone with every contraction. This is why my back hurts so badly; it’s called “back labor.” I’ve heard this term in my birth preparation, but I never thought I’d experience it.

I didn’t plan for this.

So now I have to practice vairagya. I have to detach from the outcome of what I’ve trained so hard for. Because I am literally suffering. I’m exhausted. I’m starving. And my back truly feels broken.

It takes at least an hour between me making the decision to get the epidural and the anesthesia team coming in, and the contractions during that time nearly break me. Maybe it’s because I’m mentally tapped out + know relief is coming, or maybe it’s because even more of my water came out during that last cervical check and the baby has even less cushioning, her bony head pressing into my bony spine, making the pain of contractions worse. Either way, I’m suffering. I’m gripping the comb even tighter. I’m howling for more counter pressure.

Finally it’s time for that sweet relief. 

“The resident doctor will be placing your epidural,” says the anesthesiologist.
I look at Avrey, who locks eyes with me and says, “are you okay with that?”

I’m not okay with that, and now’s not the time to people please.

“I’d rather you do it,” I say to the anesthesiologist, proud of myself for speaking up on what I truly want. And my wish is granted.

I sit on the edge of the bed facing Russ, who they let stay in the room (which is apparently rare when giving an epidural!). The actual process of being numbed is easy compared to the contractions I’ve been having for 17 hours at this point. The hardest part is staying completely still, needle in my spine, through contractions. That takes all of the mental strength I can muster up. But I do it. 

I feel the cool rush of medicine enter my back, and shortly after my legs are completely numb. I have never been so happy in my life. Mostly due to the fact that the crippling back pain of contractions is now taken away, but also partly due to the fact that the epidural is laced with fentanyl. 

I’m making jokes. I’m smiling. I’m cozying up for what they call an epi-nap (birth comb still in hand bc it’s emotional support). Russ and Avrey are also cozying up + enjoying a much-needed break from the counter pressure duties.

When I wake from my nap, we’re told that labor has slowed down. Contractions are further apart now, and the baby is experiencing “de-cel” (idk if that’s how you spell it), meaning her heart rate is dipping. It’s recommended to start Pitocin. 

Now in some of my research about unmedicated birth, Pitocin is often started after epidurals, which begins what they call the “cascade of interventions,” which can ultimately lead to a c-section. I do NOT want a c-section.

But Pitocin sounds dreamy. It’s gonna ramp up my contractions and help me dilate quicker. At this point I’ve been in labor for over 20 hours. I’d like to meet my daughter and I’d like to eat something. A sesame bagel, scooped + toasted with veggie cream cheese, preferably. 

They say we’ll start on the lowest dose of Pitocin and see how my body + baby respond. We can always turn it right off if we need to. 

“Alright, screw it. Load the IV.” I still have a little humor, thanks to the fentanyl.

A little while later, the contractions pick up. YAHOOOO! Another cervical check around 6p confirms I am 8cm dilated (!!!!!!!!!). I love Pitocin. I love the epidural. I didn’t even feel that cervical check. It’s 10p and I’m fully dilated.

It’s time to push.

“Can you wheel that mirror over?” I ask Avrey, “I want to do my hair.” 

I’m gonna meet my daughter soon.

I re-slick my hair and pull it into a tight braid, feeling a rush of excitement. I’m also shaking again. They say it’s probably from the epidural. 

I think it’s from the excitement and nerves.

I’m going to push. And then I’m going to meet the baby that’s been inside of my body. Half me, half Russ. I can’t wait to know her.

Let’s push.

 

Chapter 4: The Shift

My braid is perfect. My legs are numb. I’m as hydrated as ice chips allow me to be. And I’m READY to experience what I’ve trained so hard for: birth.

The medical assistant sets up a table in front of me with all of these instruments. 

“What the hell are those for?!” I ask, half-kidding bc of the fentanyl, but also completely serious, bc why am I looking at forceps and vacuums and scissors and all these other things that I have no idea what they are, but know that I do NOT want them anywhere near me???

She says, “Oh, don’t worry honey, this is just standard procedure. We’re not planning to use any of this but want them accessible just in case,” as she puts a sheet over them.

“Did you just cover them up so I don’t have to look at them? That was really sweet of you!!!” I say, genuinely touched.

“No, that’s also standard procedure. Keeps them sanitary,” the nurse says.

LOL OKAY

I tell Russ to set the tripod up so we can capture the moment our girl enters the world. “Don’t start recording yet, though, I don’t think the pushing phase is that quick.” I look to my midwife for clarification.

She agrees, telling us that pushing can be anywhere from 10 minutes to a few hours, but we’ll know the right time to start recording. 

It’s time for a practice push. My legs are supported + held up. Russ holds the left one, Avrey holds the right one. During a contraction, I’m instructed to inhale, grab the back of my legs and pull myself towards them, tuck my chin to my chest, and hold my breath while I push.

“I don’t want to hold my breath,” I say. 

I want to exhale as I push. It’s how I trained. It’s what I’m comfortable with. I want to breathe this baby into the world.

So, I exhale while I push. And the first push is a wash. I feel NOTHING. When I trained for this, I felt everything. Obviously; I didn’t have an epidural then. How the HECK am I supposed to know if I’m pushing effectively? I’m discouraged right away. I can feel tears in my eyes beginning to form. I thought this was going to be easy.

We try a few more practice pushes, and each gets a little more effective. I even try holding my breath! I hate it, though. It makes me feel lightheaded and like I’m going to pop all the blood vessels in my face.

I graduate from practice pushes to real pushes!!! I start to feel when contractions are happening!!! I feel in touch with my body, I feel strong, and I feel in-control.

I push for what feels like minutes but really is a few hours until the midwife says, “I can feel her head!”

In that moment, I am ELATED. I feel so encouraged!!! My baby is coming!!!

“I see brown hair!!!”

Omg

“Do you want to see?” 

No. But also yes. They wheel the mirror over and I watch a push. I can’t see her head, but I can feel it.

I do some more powerful pushes over the next half hour, but there’s no progress. Why isn’t she coming? I feel a slight energetic shift in the room.

“I’m going to get a second opinion from the doctor on shift,” says my midwife. 

Why do we need a second opinion? My pushes are really powerful. I’m doing an incredible job. I’m really confused. The last thing I want is for a doctor to come in and say I need a c-section.

The on-shift doc comes in and does a cervical check. Her face goes from neutral to concerned, and she says, “we’re pushing right now?!”

Another energetic shift in the room.

“She’s not fully dilated. She should not be pushing.”

“We’re going to get a third opinion.”

Same thing. Apparently I should *not* have been pushing for for the last 5 hours. The 2nd on-shift doctor explains that my cervix is in the way of the baby’s head, and the baby cannot get through it. So all of my pushes are pointless. Not only pointless, but potentially harmful.

Hours of pushing. I’m exhausted. I’m totally exhausted. I’m discouraged.

They do an ultrasound and confirm that the baby is “OP”, aka “sunny side up”, but she’s also twisted, making her positioning even more difficult.

“Give it to me straight,” I say, “what’s the plan?”

At this point, my water’s been broken for 34 hours. My risk of infection is higher, especially because of all of these cervical checks.

“The plan is, you’re gonna rest. Take a nap. We’re gonna amp up the Pitocin. In a couple of hours, if you’re fully dilated, we can try pushing again, but not for too long. Your baby’s positioning makes it hard for her to fit through your pelvis, even if you’re fully dilated.”

I don’t want her to say it, but she says it.

“I’d recommend a c-section, but it’s up to you if you want to try pushing again.”

I look at Russ, I look at Avrey, and the tears come flowing. My biggest fear going into birth, now an actual possibility. 

The team leaves me, Russ, and Avrey to ourselves to think it over. And I just cry. 

I want to have this magical, natural experience of birthing my baby and enjoying golden hour, skin-to-skin, with her on my chest. I want to feel the rush of love that comes with seeing my baby come out of my body. I’m not giving up without giving it EVERYTHING I have.

So I rest. I try different positions to help my baby turn. I take a nap. They amp up my Pitocin. A couple of hours later, I’m fully dilated. I’m giving these pushes absolutely everything I have.

For the next 30 minutes, I push harder than I thought possible. I try different pushing positions. I even hold my breath while I push!!! I’m surrounded by positive encouragement + an incredible birthing team.

No progress.

I give it one more push before I basically collapse. 

“I can’t do it anymore,” I say through exhausted tears, “I’m going to need the c-section.”

Everyone in the room knows that this is what needs to happen. I am so sad. I am so, deeply sad. And scared. Terrified, actually.

The surgical team comes in and explains what the surgery will be like, including the risks. The lead surgeon tells us that because I pushed for 6 hours, I have an extremely high likelihood (80% chance) of bleeding + needing a blood transfusion. She also says I might need a hysterectomy. 

She says all of this while I shake uncontrollably. She says all of this while I cry. She says all of this while she’s wiping away my tears. It’s a moment where I feel like “I hate you but also I love you.”

I feel so defeated.

The nurse on shift comes over to me, locks eyes with me as I’m crying, and says something like: “Charlotte, imagine what you’d say to your daughter if she was going through this. You’d tell her that however she brings her baby into the world, she is still a mother. You are an incredible mother already, Charlotte. You’re making this decision to bring your baby into the world safely. You’re making this decision for your daughter.” 

If my legs weren’t numb I would hug this nurse and never let her go. Her words help me so much.

She helps me reframe my thoughts from, "I'm a failure for not giving birth naturally" to "I'm choosing to bring my baby safely into this world."

Avrey says, “some babies are breathed into the world, and other babies are lifted into this world. The baby decides how they’re going to get here. Your baby has decided she wants to be lifted.”

Russ says, “this is the right decision.”

And so it’s settled.

My IV is loaded with even more medicine. I feel myself numbing more. I’m wheeled into the operating room.

My biggest fear is coming true. I’m having a c-section.

 

to be continued….