Note: Providentially enough, this blog post itself is actually retrospective. God was gracious to us and brought our son, Charles Gillan, into the world one day prior to his due date and not 12 hours after the post below was written! More to come on that, but for now, here's Eleanor's story.
Well, late term insomnia has begun. I am up at the unsightly (for me) hour of 11:33pm because I just cannot get comfortable, the baby is kicking very aggressively and I ate one--maybe several--chocolate-chip studded brownies. They were healthy. Ish. They had applesauce in them.
(On a somewhat related note, our neighborhood comes to life after eleven at night. There are several cars parked in front of our house right now. Music of a specific genre is blaring and people from New Jersey and New York and Florida are "visiting" our neighbor. I am not suspicious in the least, but I will tell you that I am nodding my head up- and-down right now and not side-to-side. )
Anyhow, you know that old saying, "thoughts of labor bring on labor?" Please say that you have heard someone say this. Because I am hoping that recalling Eleanor's birth story will kick start labor and we can finally meet this wonderful, sweet little creature that is quickly becoming too big for my belly. Regardless, here is the story of our dearest daughter's arrival on this earth because I truly don't want to forget it and I'm certain some details will slip away as our next child makes his entrance.
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Eleanor was born four days past her due date which in pregnancy time equates to four decades. I hadn't had any symptoms of impending labor (Braxton-Hicks, etc.) but I did have a seriously painfully case of sciatica. Thinking back on it, the sciatica was actually more painful for me than labor. I was completely incapacitated for weeks leading up to Eleanor's birth--despite trying massage, chiropractic and acupuncture. Needless to say, I was feeling like a wounded animal. I tried to be patient and friendly with those around me, but my instinct was to growl at people. Growl and then burst into tears, of course. What a strange range of emotions to experience. Praise God for such an understanding husband, is all I have to say.
At 3am on Friday, October 26th, I finally felt something. A dull, low cramping came on and I had a fleeting thought that this might be the beginning of labor. I told myself that it would likely go on like this---slow, inconsistent--for a while and that I should just breathe through it.
By morning, the contractions had subsided and I headed to my midwife for a post-due date appointment. I was in the office for over an hour and only experienced one contraction the entire time. More waiting was inevitable and more tears came. I was in an emotionally fragile state when I arrived home and thankfully had arranged for some visitors to stop by throughout the day to keep me company. My friend and her son stopped by and I remember having three or so contractions during their couple hour visit. Then my sister, Livie, stopped by with Panera for lunch. Contractions were still sporadic, but they were strong enough to eradicate my appetite and Livie got to eat the remainder of my Greek salad. At this point it was 1pm and I called Shawn to come home because, "I think we might have a baby sometime this weekend and I don't want to be alone after my sister leaves."
Shawn arrived home at 2pm and the rest of my labor is a complete blur. I am pretty sure that contractions were happening inconsistently until about 5pm. Then they would not let up at all. At this point any sane woman would have called her doula/midwife/OB, but I just told myself that this was probably normal and that the pain was not really that bad and that it had to get worse. I did not time contractions mainly because I had incorrectly prioritized two pieces of information from our birthing class: 1. phases of labor are flexible and 2. first time moms tend to be in the active phase of labor for a while.
I called my doula several times in the early evening, but I believe that my tone was a little too "stiff upper lip" because she kept telling me to take a shower and try to lie down. At almost 8pm I called her and tried using a more authoritative approach by asking her to please come NOW.
Shawn was buzzing around the house doing little things like putting felt pads on the bottom of furniture and placing our bags near the door and rushing to my aid when I yelled, "Shaaaawn...." I don't remember being able to breathe between contractions or during contractions or at all, really. I do remember saying over and over again during a contraction, "Tell me it will be over soon, just tell me it will be over soon...." I really should have known something was up by then.
Three showers, myriad contractions and one hour later and it was almost 9pm. The doula still hadn't arrived and I decided to call my midwife. She picked up immediately and asked me to describe what I was feeling. This is something I could not do. I would begin to describe the kind of pressure, pain, agony and then would have to hold the phone away while I stifled a primal scream. After attempting to answer her questions several times, she just told me to hand the phone to Shawn. At this point the doula breezed in. Super timing because apparently the midwife told Shawn to get me to the hospital. Stat. Or we would be delivering the baby at the house.
Shawn put my shoes on for me, loaded the bags in the car and watched me hobble down the stairs. Our drive to hospital was a short and agonizing ten minutes. We pulled up to the hospital and my midwife was out front waiting for us with a wheel chair. She remarked that she hardly recognized me--I was wearing some combination of Shawn's clothes, I think, and my hair was in a wet bun. She rushed me through the lobby, hollering, "Hold the elevator! This woman is going to have a baby!" and defending Shawn from the admitting paperwork hounds by saying, "He doesn't have time to fill out paperwork! He'll miss the birth!"
I really had very little idea of what was going on except that things were moving very, very fast.
Eleven minutes and four pushes later, a healthy Eleanor was in our arms. Shawn was laugh-crying and I was...calm. And completely overwhelmed. Adrenaline kicked in and I felt this sort of euphoria. I kept repeating to my sweet, crying newborn, "It's okay. It's okay, Sweetie. We love you. Shhhh..." Like I had been doing this sort of this forever. At the same time I felt strangely removed from the whole experience. Did that just happen? How did this baby get into my arms?
That night was one of the most amazing of my life. Shawn and I hardly slept, but we did not feel tired. We laid in the big bed at the birthing center with Eleanor between us and just stared at her, utterly amazed and completely in love. Nurses came and went kindly and quietly and the lights were dim. The mood in the room was hushed...holy, even. "Praise God from Whom all blessings flow" was the sentiment ringing in my heart that night.
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A few details to round things out for those who may be curious. I went into labor with the intention of not having any medical interventions. Seven months into my pregnancy I had switched from a convention OB/GYN practice to a midwifery because I felt that the doctors at the former practice took a bit too much for granted with me. They asked very few questions because I was a low-risk pregnancy and I felt unsettingly detatched from my pregnancy. We also hired a doula and went to a birth class that was more alternative in nature, but I will say that I am not a diehard when it comes to natural childbirth. My approach was: if I need the epidural, I need the epidural. I am not going to dismiss advances in medicine in order to prove a point to myself or the world (i.e. I am woman, hear me roar, etc.). I trusted the Lord and His leading me during the process and the way I just recounted it is how He wanted it to be. And it was good.
Twelve hours later. A bleary-eyed (and blissful) new family.
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