"A Birth Story: A Fairly Honest Recounting of the Events Immediately Preceding the Birth of Our Daughter"

Part Two:

The In-Hospital Part

We stumble around the house, gathering what we need to bring with us to the hospital. I manage to get my contact lens solution into a canvas bag. I am just starting to pick out a suitable first-ever outfit for Saoirse to wear home from the hospital - blue or red? it seemed like a very important decision at the time - when John announces that we are ready. Not only has he remembered that we had somewhat prepared for this eventuality by making a list of things to bring to the hospital, but he has also managed to gather everything on said list in under five minutes. He's also reinstalled the carseat, packed us a feast of peanut sauce stir-fry and chocolate, gathered some baby paraphernalia, provided for the dogs, located the spare house key for their walker, and even packed the iPod dock. So, correction: I stumbled around aimlessly, while John turned on the super-dad afterburner and actually pulled it off.

We arrive at the hospital and meet Claudia on the maternity ward. She greets us warmly and enthusiastically, and the staff behind the desk all do the same, referring to me by name and assuring me that I'll simply love the room. Although I don't feel able to fully appreciate everybody's efforts - I still feel on the verge of tears - I do smile. I add "social lubricant" to my growing mental list of Claudia's incredible talents, as I feel myself melt a little. The whole hospital experience, which I had once held in such sharp contrast to my idealized vision of "natural" childbirth, is softening. Then, I feel another powerful contraction coming on, so we begin to slowly make our way down the hall to our room.

I notice that the room itself is massive, and boasts a wide view of the Experimental Farm. Doesn't really matter, doesn't really hurt matters. I explore my way to the bathroom, and am blown away by the size of the tub. This is a big deal to me. Since early pregnancy, I have put the idea of having a water-birth on a pedestal; although I know that I can't get into it until I am 5 centimetres dilated, I am grateful to have it to look forward to as providing some pain relief.

We settle in. A doctor comes in and informs me that they are going to put me on the Oxytocin at a regularly increasing dosage until they "have that baby out of me, in no time at all". I tell him that I don't mind if this thing takes a bit of time. I look to Claudia for help, wishing she wouldn't be so damn respectful all the time, and say, "You're going to remain my primary caregiver, right?" And she reassures me that she will. The doctor leaves shortly thereafter and, when he's gone, John tears down the sign above the bed that advertises an epidural.

We go for a stroll down the hall and I discover my love of ice chips.

Later in the afternoon, around 5 pm, Claudia's 24-hour shift is over and Paula's begins. Paula has been my primary mid-wife since the beginning, so I have been meeting with her regularly for almost a year. Paula is warm, positive and realistic, and she is not prone to overreaction, exaggeration or fear-mongering. I've always felt we are compatible in the unique relationship that we've found ourselves in. She provides the care willingly, as is her job, as she has done with countless other women; I accept it, gratefully, without giving up any of my autonomy. There is no strange power dynamic complicating things, just pure co-operation.

Shortly thereafter, the mission is to get the Oxytocin drip connected to my IV, or something to that effect. At this point, I'm really not able to be present to that type of discussion. I do get the sense that they are having some difficulty, though, because they are not familiar with the particular thingy that that connects the thingy to the thingy on the IV thingy. They call in the nurse, who turns out to be something of an old friend, and the room erupts into happy banter and loud laughter. Me? Oh, don't worry about me, I'm just over here by the chair, totally freaking out. That's right. I'm losing my control, I can't concentrate, my breath escapes me and suddenly, the contraction peaks and another one has already begun, leaving me no time to recover. I hear Claudia say, "She was doing great, I don't know what's happening", and someone else says something about an Oxytocin flush.. the whole dose... I don't want to hear that, I don't want to know anything other than whether or not it is going to continue on like this. I need them to understand that I can't handle this, if this is how labour is going to be from now on, forget it. I'm open to anything, but not this. I'm relieved when it's finally over, and they assure me that there was not an accident with the Oxytocin, it was just a one-off double whammy contraction. The trust is still there.

I spend another long time leaning over the bed, with my head down, holding John's hands... until my legs get sore... then I move back to leaning over the chair. I want to try other position - no, I want to want to try other positions - like squatting or hands-and-knees, but I find both positions so uncomfortable that I always hurry back.

Later in the evening, my endurance starts to falter, and my optimism goes with it. I ask Paula for some idea of what's going on. I feel trapped in time, like this one moment is stretching way longer than I can cope with, and start to distrust the process. I'm getting really tired of being in pain.

Paula gets that I am craving a sense of accomplishment, or at least some measurement of progress other than time. I find that time can be a surprisingly unpredictable unit of measurement, in times of intensity. She checks me again, and I am 5 cm's dilated. This is the best news I have ever heard. I can get in the bath.

The bath's warm water doesn't disappoint. In the tub, I relax to the point of drifting off between contractions, which are now a minute long and a minute apart. After about an hour, my sounds become more guttural - I can hear myself, it doesn't sound like me, but I know it must be because I was told there was no one else on the ward - and my pitch goes up at the end. I'm feeling the urge to push.

"Are you feeling the urge to push?" Paula is on top of it.

"Yes! Can I?!?" I'm pretty much begging.

"No. As long as you can keep yourself from pushing, don't push!" I think of a Sublime song but I can't remember how it goes.

Some time later, I rebel and I push. I can feel Saoirse inside, moving down; I can tell, inch by inch, that my pushing is being productive. There is show in the tub, and Paula finally tells me that it is alright to push. I don't want to disappoint.

Several pushes later, she informs me that I have to get out of the tub because in Ontario, water births are illegal. Somehow, this information didn't register with me before. I don't think it's possible to get out of the tub, and I want to sneakily push her out while Paula's in the other room prepping, but I don't. I curse Ontario all the way back to my leaning chair.

At the chair! I bear down and push. Between pushing, I feel absolutely nothing. I don't actually feel the urge to push. I start pushing because I want this to be over, and it's only once I'm pushing that I can't stop. It feels sort of amazing in an awful way. The infamous ring of fire, that I learned about in prenatal class, lasts much longer than I thought it would. It lasted long enough for me to scream that I am feeling it, swear, repeat that I'm still feeling it, and swear again for a really long time. The ring of fire is aptly named, as it really does feel like there's a fire lit inside of you and the flames are lapping at your exit point.

I'm told that her head is out, but I don't dare look.

I'm in bed, shaking like a fiend, totally dazed and confused. Some time later, Paula hooks Saoirse up to my breast and she latches on. I can't believe it. I'm totally floored. I get it now. There are no more words.