Taylor’s Birth Story
Taylor’s birth story has taken over two years to write because I have struggled with how my emotional responses to her birth have evolved over time. Most birth stories begin with the on-set of labor and end with the baby’s birth, but I’ve begun Taylor’s story with the beginning of our pregnancy. I would also eventually like to write about our hospital stay immediately following her birth because those moments did impact our lives as a new family, and I want Taylor to understand how sacred and gently new life should be respected.
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January 18, 2006
Dear Taylor,
At the moment you’re sleeping contentedly in your bassinet at the foot of our bed. I woke up at six this morning (and at midnight and 3 o’clock before that) to feed you, with Paw Paw sitting in a chair across from me waiting to burp you. She also lovingly gave you a bath and put you down for your morning nap, so I could tell you the story of your growth and birth.
Dad and I made a conscious decision to start a family. You were no accident but a welcomed addition to our marriage. We both wanted the sound of children to fill our home and the love we would feel for you to fill our hearts. On May 25,2005 (the weekend of our family trip to Pebble Beach) JF, the midwife at OGA, confirmed the beginnings of you. I had taken two home pregnancy tests that tested positive on May 5, but seeing your little being on the sonogram monitor awoke a new reality for us. We couldn’t wait to share the news with your Nana, Papa Bud, Uncle Eric and Aunt Katie (who were anxiously waiting for us to join them at the Lodge).
Over the next few months, Dad and I continued to play golf whenever we could. We even spent our first wedding anniversary in Maui, soaking in the sun on Kapalua’s courses. My golf game improved during this time, and I was convinced that you were helping me along the way. Some time in the fifth month of pregnancy, your Dad and I played a round at Harding Park, where I met the temporary end of my golf career. I pulled a muscle just below my ribs and couldn’t finish the entire round. My clubs have been resting in the basement ever since.
Our first trimester was fairly uneventful. I didn’t get morning sickness, but I was sensitive to certain smells. The wrong waft (like BBQ sauce or garlic) up my nose made me queasy. During this time I didn’t cook dinner every night. Instead, I retreated to Bock Hoo’s dining room and enjoyed food she often cooked during my childhood. It was also at this time that I craved rice and noodles. Poor old Dad had to fend for himself in the evenings, grabbing a Whole Foods special or a sandwich from Subway.
Our second trimester was uneventful in terms of physical symptoms, but our emotional world was turned upside down. At the end of our first trimester I started taking yoga classes at CPMC with KM. I asked her for some information, and she emailed a Word document with great books to read and people to meet. I ordered a couple of books (Birthing From Within and Ina May’s Guide to Childbirth) off of Amazon and read them simultaneously.
The messages were unconventional, to say the least, but something about them resonated very deeply within me and inspired me to take action. I began to question the current medical model around pregnancy and birth and found hope that I could beat the somber statistics. During dinner each day I would share some of the information with Dad, and these conversations turned into the most difficult ones we’d had in our entire relationship. We didn’t quite see eye-to-eye on some of the biggest decisions around your birth, and for awhile your Mom cried hormone-induced tears at almost every evening meal.
Also during this time, we visited a birth center called SF and Labor and Delivery at CPMC, UCSF and SL. We were ecstatic to find a hospital like SL, a hospital that seemed to respect the midwifery model of childbirth, but for some reason your Mom decided to stick with CMPC for awhile longer. With the help of my psychotherapist, Ann, Dad’s patience and the continued, openly raw communication between your Father and me, we decided to stay under the care of physicians at CPMC but supplement our preparation with holistic childbirth classes. These classes would be outside of what most people think of in terms of childbirth preparation, but your Dad humored me and agreed to join me on this journey.
Each week, we met with Staci and Hokhmah for three hours of sharing, exploring, meditating and moving in Staci’s basement sanctuary, among candles, flower essences and smudged sage. Staci and Hokhmah held us safely, allowing us to share our deepest thoughts and pushing us when appropriate to honor our on own truths.
For awhile I continued lull myself into thinking that CPMC was still the right place to give birth to you. It wasn’t until the eighth month of our pregnancy that I finally admitted to myself that I didn’t feel completely safe and confident in giving birth where medical intervention is notoriously common. Although I knew switching providers and hospitals would be a bit of an upheaval, logistically and emotionally, I had to do what was ultimately the best for our little family.
We sought the final days of our prenatal care at MMS, where Hokhmah was a midwife; planned for your birth at MGH; hired Staci as our doula; and hoped beyond hope that Hokhmah would be the midwife to catch you. As hopeful as we were, we knew that holding on and becoming attached to that hope was unhealthy, so we held the intention without gripping on to it.
In the final weeks of our 40-week wait for your arrival, Dad and I continued to talk, sing, kiss, joke and laugh with you as much as we could. We were anxious to finally meet our baby girl. Staci and Hokhmah were convinced that you weren’t going to be late. I whole-heartedly agreed with them because as soon as we found out you were on your way, something told me that you would come early. Staci warned me that all first-time moms have this feeling, so I tried to keep my prediction in perspective.
I got into the luxurious but necessary pattern of attending yoga classes led by Kari at TMB twice a week and weekly massages by Janet at CPMC’s Women’s Health Resource Center. I welcomed this ritual, as it prepared and fulfilled me physically and spiritually. Wishfully thinking you might arrive at the 38-week mark on the nose, we waited for you to come on Christmas Day or shortly after, but Christmas came and went without a trip to the hospital. New Year’s Eve (a.k.a. Uncle Eric’s birthday) rolled around, and we took that opportunity to meet Uncle Eric, Uncle Joe, Nana and Papa Bud at Skipolini’s Pizza in Walnut Creek. They have this pizza called the Prego Pizza that’s supposed to induce labor, but it didn’t work in this case. At the very least, the pizza was delicious and worthy of eating even if you’re not trying to induce labor.
In the first week of January I noticed at subtle shift in my body. I was experiencing more pregnancy “symptoms” (the surge of “lightning bolts” in my vagina, increased Braxton Hicks contractions, increased pelvic pressure, hemorrhoids, occasional menstrual-like cramps and increasing overall discomfort ), but the pattern was not rhythmic or worthy of a phone call.
On Wednesday of that week, I received my second massage/acupressure treatment from Janet. I was also scheduled to receive a labor-nudging acupuncture treatment on Friday evening from Kari’s husband Craig (but we’ll get back to that later). As usual, I went to yoga on Thursday morning and shared my list of “symptoms”. If I remember correctly, I spent the rest of the day running errands with Bock Hoo. That evening, Dad and I ate dinner, watched an episode of CSI and went to bed around 10 or 11 o’clock.
As I had been for months, I woke up and got up to pee every so often. After a trip to the bathroom around 2:30 in the morning, I got back into bed and noticed a popping sensation “down below”. It was like no other sensation I had felt before, and I wondered if my water had broken. I felt for moisture but didn’t feel any, so I made my way back to the bathroom. Just as I pulled down my underwear, a clear liquid flowed from my body. I called to your dad, “Babe, I think my water just broke.” He stumbled to the bathroom and groggily asked if I was sure of what had just happened. I explained that I hadn’t peed on myself and couldn’t imagine what else it could be.
Once our moment of shock and disbelief passed, we called Staci and finished packing our hospital bags for the next hour or so. Knowing that I might not want to eat later in labor, I drank a cup of miso soup and ate a few hard boiled eggs (for what I thought to be the marathon ahead).
As much as I wanted to rest during this phase of labor, my body wouldn’t allow it. I had to keep walking. It just hurt too much to lie down or sit. It also hurt my feet and back to remain upright, but I had to choose the lesser of the discomforts. Each contraction was fairly mild at this point, and I had a difficult time telling Dad exactly when each one came and went. Around 4 o’clock the contractions took on a new level of intensity, and I could no longer signal to Dad; it took too much energy and concentration. He just had to watch my body language and decide for himself. As Staci made her way to our house, she was in communication with Hokhmah, checking in with new information and seeking advice. Hokhmah wondered if my water had truly broken and suspected that it may have actually stayed intact.
Because I was riding each wave so well, Dad, Staci and I had no idea how far into labor I was. I found comfort leaning on our buffet in the dining room, leaning against walls and door jams as I made my way through the house and leaning on the bathroom vanity. Throughout labor and during the final moments at home, I pooped (4 times) and vomited once. Although sitting on the toilet was uncomfortable and intense, my body had to release what was inside. Throwing up felt so good. It was a physical and spiritual cleansing.
Around 5:30 a.m., contractions took on yet another level of intensity. Dad, Staci and I were in the bathroom together. In between a contraction, I turned to Staci and said matter-of-factly, “I see why women give up.” At that moment, with contractions coming so closely and with so much energy, I understood how easily women succumb to the “comfort” of medication. I didn’t realize it as it was happening, but this was my Transition, the phase when most women lose faith in themselves. Seconds later, I expressed my need to leave for the hospital. While Staci and Dad were concerned about getting there too early, they respected my request. Dad loaded up the car, and we made our way to the garage.
I wedged my body in the back seat of our Highlander, between the door and your car seat. Facing backwards, I leaned over the seat, hugging a pillow. As soon as we were in motion, I felt the urge to push, but I couldn’t tell Dad because I didn’t want to worry him.
Today is Saturday, June 3rd, and you’re almost five months old. It’s been a busy few months, to say the least, and I’m finally finding some time to continue writing your birth story. My memory may not be as clear, but I do want to finish this story for you.
Determined to hold you inside of me until we reached the hospital, I just buried my face in the pillow and moaned through each wave. Hearing the rumble of our tires on metal grates was a welcomed sound. I knew we were finally on the Golden Gate Bridge, and I looked up to see the most beautiful sunrise. The City skyline was set against the sky ablaze with pinks, reds and oranges. Just as quickly as I emerged, I retreated to the comfort of my pillow once again until we reached the hospital.
As soon as Dad pulled up to the curb, I finally expressed my need to push to Dad and to Staci. The contractions were so intense that it took me an extra moment to get out of the car. Once on the sidewalk, another wave came rushing through me, and I leaned into the cold, brick wall just steps away from the sliding entrance doors. I waddled inside the hospital, still clutching onto my pillow as I passed the reception desk. In between a contraction, I mumbled something to the ladies behind the desk, and they replied, “I think they’re going to keep you (and not send you home).” I guess it was pretty obvious that I was in active labor. From the lobby to the triage room, I stopped wherever I could during each rush – against the wall in the elevator, at the counter of the nurse’s station, anywhere.
As soon as I stepped into the triage room I asked if I could push, but I was told to wait. The nurses wanted to check and measure dilation. Still not wanting to sit or lie down, I asked Dad to raise the bed up as far as possible for me to lean on. The bed moved painfully slow, and before the bed could be raised to where I wanted it, a nurse told us that I was fully dilated, and you were at +2 station. Relieved to hear the numbers, I thought I could finally push, but no, I was again told to wait. They wanted me to be moved to a labor and delivery room. In came a giant wheel chair, and I was hurried down the hall to a delivery room.
The nurses tried to get me into a gown and preserve whatever modesty they assumed I had, but I couldn’t care less about being naked in front of all those people at that moment. I was more than ready to push you out, and I wasn’t going to worry about what I was or was not wearing, so I stripped my clothes off and leaned over the bed, convinced they would surely let me push. No. They wanted to check for your heart tones, first with a fetal scope. No tones. Then they prepared to prick your scalp with an internal monitor. Just as they hurried to do this, Staci looked to Dad for approval, just to make sure he knew what the nurses were intending to do. In went the monitor. No tones. I knew were O.K., but I just didn’t have the presence of mind to say so. Besides, why would they take my word for it?
They told me that I couldn’t push you out while standing. I had to lie down to push you out. At this point, I knew it was in your best interest for me to follow their instructions without hesitation. I didn’t want them to cut you out of me. I didn’t want them to suck you out with a vacuum. I didn’t want them to pull you out with forceps. So, with Staci holding my left leg and Dad holding my right, I pushed with all my might when they told me to push. Your head wasn’t coming out as quickly as they would have liked, and the midwife informed me that she had to make a small cut. This was the first moment in this whole process that brought on a sense of panic. I thought to myself, “I’m not under any anesthesia, and you’re going to cut me with scissors?!?!” Surprisingly, it didn’t hurt at all. I felt the snip, but it didn’t hurt. Quite simply, my body was doing its work because it had not been injected with drugs.
Today is March 28th, and you’re almost 27 months old. So much time has passed since your birth day that my memory is less clear. That, and my perception of the events that unfolded that morning have changed. Oh, how I wish that your entry into this world was so much more gentle and peaceful.
After 30 minutes of pushing (which felt more like 5 minutes) you were born at 7:59 a.m.
Today is November 26, 2008 — the beginning of my healing.