Plans to Prosper You and Not to Harm You, Plans to Give You Hope and a Future (A Birth Story)

Written in collaboration with Phil Storrs On Saturday, October 6, 2012 at 3:44 am, God brought Eloïse Opal Storrs into our family completely according to His own plan and timing. While we had lofty aims for a natural labor and delivery, it was with some fear and yet real peace that we watched one by one, those plans knocked to the wayside.

First, a caveat. This post is so long in coming because it was one of the most difficult I've written. It took nearly a month to finally process my emotions into something tangible to relate here. My first draft was much more dramatic and way too somber. I felt burdened to tell a "good story"—something exciting and suspenseful!—when the truth of those precious memories is nearly impossible to translate from heart to brain. Every stab I took at it seemed to cheapen the experience I had come to treasure in my heart. What I remember now is not really the play by play. The story has no proper structure, no climax or denouement. It's a series of revelations. A blossoming. A change from self to new self. It's how her little head felt and the sound of her first cry. The helplessness. And feeling so broken, yet so loved.

Still, the show must go on! So thanks goes out to my wonderful husband for helping me to fill in the blanks in my mommy-brain to bring you this narrative:

In the Beginning

My water broke at 9 pm on Thursday, October 4, ten days before Eloïse was due to arrive. Traditionally, hospitals want you to deliver your baby within 24 hours of your water breaking because there is risk for infection, so this put us on a bit of a timer. Contrary to what you see in the movies, a woman's water usually breaks after many hours of labor, so we were thrown for a bit of a loop. In all of our "what if" scenarios in preparing for a natural birth, we hadn't considered what we would do in a case like this. Yet even though the pressure was on to get this baby out in a timely manner, we were beside ourselves with excitement. Labor should start up soon, and we could meet our little one perhaps as early as Friday afternoon.

Timing

Knowing the road ahead would be long and hard, I tried to rest as much as possible. Mild but noticeable contractions began and we were unable to sleep for all the adrenaline coursing through our veins. We went for a walk to see if we could get the labor moving. Our neighborhood never seemed so eerie as that Friday morning at 2 am. It felt so surreal to walk around in the dark. Our baby is coming! I couldn't get it out of my head. This may be the last walk we take as a childless couple. Finally, we calmed ourselves to rest for a few hours.

The next morning, at a more reasonable hour to be out of bed, we waited for labor to really ramp up. I did some yoga, went for another walk. Waited. Turned on my birth playlist and cleared my mind. Waited. Scrounged around for the lunch I was certain I wouldn't be at home to eat, and still, waited more. Knowing that our option to avoid medication could quickly become limited in the hospital, our plan had always been to labor at home for as long as possible. So the waiting continued.

Finally, in the early afternoon, with contractions still 10-15 minutes apart and not getting any stronger, we decided to contact our doctor. "Come to the hospital immediately," she directed. I cried when I got off the phone.

It was nearly 3 pm, and if they were going to be strict about the 24 hour rule, our options had severely narrowed. With only 6 hours to go, they were certain to induce our labor with Pitocin, a synthetic version of the hormone, Oxytocin, that perhaps had taken a wrong turn somewhere from my glands to uterus. This meant no shower, no walking the halls - just me and an IV in the bed. In class, we had practiced many different ways to relax and manage pain during contractions, but without the flexibility to move around, it would be hard, and in some cases, impossible, to use what we'd learned. The prospect of this weighed heavily on me.

Clearing

Phil and I stood silent for a moment or more. He, feeling guilty that he'd suggested we call the doctor, and me, sure that the jig was up. I felt dysfunctional. I would not get my much anticipated natural birth - I wouldn't even get to try.

We took a walk to talk through what we should do next, what choices we still had, and what our goals should be for the final hours remaining. Phil was the one who finally flipped the switch: we're looking at this all wrong. We were just hours away from meeting our daughter, and instead of being filled with joy, we were hung up on how to squeeze the last ounce of our own "rights" out of this birth experience. What silly fools.

So, with hearts and minds refocused, we packed our things, and got into the car.

Departure

Our ride to the hospital may have been the most cheerful and relaxed in the short history of medically attended births. It was a slightly cloudy day - nice and cool.  At 4 pm, there was practically no traffic on the road.  This was not nearly the furious drive Mad Max has prepared Phil for, nor the miserable transition from home to hospital I'd fearfully anticipated.

Once we checked in and settled ourselves, our doctor arrived with the verdict. It was either Pitocin to get things moving or an emergency c-section at 9 pm. The staff all knew that we had wanted a natural birth and were gracious in making sure I was ok with the options we had left. We expressed our appreciation for being in such a wonderful hospital and agreed to move forward with Pitocin. "We're glad to be in such good hands," we shared. And with that, they plugged me in.

High Tide

Pitocin, because it's synthetic, is known to produce more intense, powerful, and fast-moving contractions, but we still wanted to see if we could labor without any additional medication for the time being. Though limited by the 4-foot radius of movement around the IV totem, we tackled each contraction head on. At first, it was easy to talk with Phil between contractions. We would breathe together, focus, and relax with each new wave.

Less than an hour had passed before I could no longer think clearly. My speech was limited to brief words and phrases, strung together almost nonsensically. The contractions continued faster and harder. Eventually I could only nod or grunt with each one. No respite. They just kept coming.

I was shaking all over, crying and ready to quit. According to everything we'd learned, this should have been the "transition" phase. If the emotional and physical signposts were accurate, it should be time to push...

Ends Not Meeting

Having only labored for an hour and change on the Pitocin, the nurse guessed I would have dilated only to 3 or 4 cm.  The straws (read: bale) were swan-diving onto the camel's back. Crack.

I told Phil I was done. He pushed back gently, allowing me some time to make sure I knew what I was saying and what that would entail. It was a sobering moment, but a good time to recall what he and I had talked about earlier that day. We would have a daughter soon.

Yet, in all the fury of the moment, I felt fragile and small. Like a child, my heart cried out for assurance. Had I done ok? Was he disappointed in me? Did I let down our baby? His simple response held the utmost sincerity, "You're doing great."

Shots

The epidural brought a wave of relief (but only after scrawling my signature in approval on some stack of papers I obviously read very closely during the peak of a contraction). I was now on every machine in the joint. The epidural in my spine and a cocktail of IV fluids, not to mention oxygen, fetal monitors, the works. Boops, beeps, drugs...all we needed now was Abba and a disco ball. And with the relief I felt, which would have made getting hit by a freight train feel like a pillow fight, I probably could have danced along.

However, and quite surprisingly, I didn't feel groggy or drugged. I had always feared that the kind of meds needed for labor would be like mixing Sudafed and alcohol (good luck remembering anything you did on that combo) but instead, I could think clearly again. I could even feel my legs, and with some effort, could move them. I told Phil I was happy we'd made this choice. As it turned out, I was indeed barely dilated, and it was nice to be able to relax for the final work ahead. I put on my headphones, cued up my birth mix, and even caught a few zz's.

Stage 2

Before I knew it (quite literally), the pushing contractions were here. Phil's eyes were saucers as he described the read out on my monitors - it looked like the Andes scribbled onto my contraction-o-graph. I, on the other hand, only started to feel a sense of pressure once my attention was directed to it. Yet it was enough of a sensation to know when the contraction was coming, and when to bear down and push. About every two minutes, the team (ie: Phil and a collection of nurses) would huddle around to help me into position. They directed me to take deep breaths, push, and hold for ten seconds, which was a good four seconds longer than my poor breath support really allowed. There was a dizzying amount of pushing, each series followed by deep breaths into the oxygen mask (so dignified), and since I had no idea whether this round was my last or number 8 of 573, it seemed relentless. Everyone kept saying I was "doing great" but I couldn't read into their volume or intonation whether "great" meant, "good progress," "nearly there," or "the final countdown." By way of a peace offering, the nurses asked if I wanted to feel her head.

My first memory of Eloïse was her warm, soft skull. She has hair! I cried. We were so close.

Blue Flies

My doctor was finally here and the room had become serious. Phil had been promoted from Leg-Holder to Encourager Number One, and stood by my side. Though fully occupied with the task at hand, I could hear the nurses murmur: "She's running a fever..." My blood pressure was already through the roof. We were over 6 hours past the desired deadline and infection was beginning to be a serious concern. Two NICU nurses stood by the warming table just in case. No one panicked outwardly, but there was an underlying sense that I needed to get this baby out. Now.

It was a tense and adroit 20 more minutes...

Fine

And then, as natural as the sunrise, she arrived. When the doctor laid Eloïse onto my stomach, joy seeped out of her warm skin into mine, her cry pierced the muddied fog in my head, and it seemed as if she had always been our baby.

Those final moments—Phil cutting the umbilical cord, cleaning her off, a perfect bill of health - swirled together into the perfect dance. Somewhere in there they sewed me up, tidied the room, I threw up, then ate a sandwich. We both beamed as Phil photographed away. All the while, I cuddled Eloïse close in my arms. It was complete bliss.

Humility

There is a sense in which this story really challenges my pride. I wanted to be strong and capable. I wanted to prove that I could handle a natural birth. I wanted some of the glory. But as I reflect on how just how blessed we were with the important things - the health of our baby, my own relatively easy recovery - I realize just how perfect our birth story really is. I couldn't make my body go into labor properly, and I couldn't control any of the variables once we got things going at the hospital. Yet by God's grace we were so well taken care of.

God safely delivered our precious little Eloïse. All glory, honor, and power is His. Amen.