When I gave birth to my second child, a son, he weighed in at 11 pounds 6 ounces and measured 23 inches long. His labor was less than six hours
from start to finish. Although it was a very straightforward labor and birth, I was thrown for a loop seven hours postpartum.
I never had the urge to pee after having him (that I recall) which I learned a few years later is not a great sign. A full bladder prohibits the uterus from contracting down to its normal size. As I lay on my couch recovering, baby in arms, breastfeeding on and off, feeling out of sorts, I tried to feel normal but I just couldn’t. I had just had a big baby with an even bigger placenta. I had thrown up the home cooked breakfast his daddy made me. I felt shaky. I was queasy. I was nauseaus. Nothing like how I felt after the birth of my first child.
After seven hours, the urge to pee was unmistakable. So much so that I couldn’t even get up off of the couch in time to make it to my bathroom.
When I sat up, I passed out. I came to with my son’s father inches from my face repeating my name. I was in a fog. I felt beyond drunk. My head was heavy atop my wobbly neck.
“Where’s the baby?” is all I said in a slow motion blur, as the baby was in his father’s arms, less than twelve inches away from me.
“You just passed out. Your eyes rolled back in your head.” I was told by my son’s father.
I felt wetness between my legs, in my lap, and on my bottom. I looked down and fluids of all colors were emerging. Clear. Red. Other. I passed out again, but not before vomiting, convulsing, and gagging.
I came to and was told by my son’s father that he was calling the ambulance. I agreed and told him I had O+ blood.
Only I was admitted to the hospital that afternoon and my son stayed home until I stabilized. He joined me around dinner time, as did my mom. We made certain not to admit my son as he was not the patient. I was.
I passed several large clots while in the hospital and the nurses took note. I received two units of blood and IV fluids. I recovered and went home, babe in arms, by 10:00 the next morning.
The experience was harrowing and something I never wish on anyone, nor do I ever want to experience again. I didn’t physically feel like myself
for almost a year and a half.
When I found myself pregnant three years later, I had a rough road ahead of me, emotionally and mentally.
I immediately thought I would birth in a hospital with a midwife. This baby was due in spring so there was no threat of snow forcing me to labor in a car as the nearest hospital midwives were an hour drive away. For my first child, who was due in the dead of a northeast Ohio winter, I chose not to birth in the hospital with midwives because the drive was too far. Especially in winter.
But I reasoned for this spring baby, a hospital birth with a certified nurse midwife would be the best option.
But I couldn’t digest the thought. I couldn’t wrap my head around it. I had had two babies and two home births. I wanted number three to be at home, too.
But I was scared. I was confused. I had two other humans to think about besides the one I was carrying.
I started with my physical health. I figured if nothing else, I could physically be at my best. I drank red raspberry leaf tea a couple of times per day to help tone my uterus. I ate dark leafy greens religiously. Raw. Sautéed. Boiled. Whatever. I ate greens. Kale, spinach, mesculin salad. I took probiotics. I drank some nasty ass iron supplement toward the end of my pregnancy. I tracked what I ate, making sure I got enough protein, calcium, and vitamin C.
Then I worked on my emotions. I cried a lot. I prayed. I visualized. I blogged. I wrote. I hiked. I daydreamed. I did it all. Any port in a storm.
And at the end of each emotional upheaval, I always came back to homebirth. I always felt safest and at peace when I envisioned my birth happening at home.
Daddy and I drove the route to the ER, just in case. We had medical records and information at the ready. We had three sets of neighbors lined up for emergent childcare at any time of the day or night with phone numbers of family. We hired a midwife to oversee the birth and help us on our journey. And at the end of the day, I just believed.
I believed that our child would not be another 11 pounds with an 11 pound placenta. I believed I had done everything physically that I could to strengthen and tone my uterus. I knew what signs to look for postpartum and the midwife was certain to get me to go to the loo. I believed that I was just as safe birthing at home as I was birthing in the sparkling new, state of the art hospital that was less than five miles away.
The day before I birthed my third child, I was a ball of hormonal emotions. I cried over everything. I cried about dying. I cried about the baby dying. I cried about if I died, who would make sure my kids went to Ohio State and not that school up north. I cried about not knowing if I was a good mother. I cried about how would I be a good mother to this new baby. I cried about living in a small house with one bathroom. I cried about my dog. I cried and cried and cried.
Bleck.
That night, I awoke around midnight from a dull, achy, undeniable pain in my pelvis. I went to the bathroom and there it was: blood. The same blood that I had seen nearly four years prior that had sent me on another path. This time, the blood was there setting the wheels in motion to bring forth life.
I didn’t panic. I defined. I defined the situation, like a good scientist and made it black and white.
“My cervix is opening. The capillaries are breaking. My body is laboring. Everything is normal.”
It calmed me. I took deep breaths. I revisited my beliefs. I believed in my baby. I believed in my body. I believed in my ability to trust birth. And I knew I was in good hands.
Less than 42 minutes later, I was weeping as I held my 8 pound 12 ounce daughter in my hands, in my tiny bathroom in my 900 square foot house. She wasn’t 11 pounds, as I predicted. I felt safe, as I predicted. I didn’t hemorrhage, as I predicted. I made sure and went to the bathroom, frequently. I reported to my midwife on my blood loss. I showered, ate, giggled, smiled, laughed and felt high. Like I had the first time around. I felt great.
But upon inspection, the midwife noticed a steady trickle of blood that made her uncomfortable. She wanted to give me a shot of pitocin, but I declined. But, we had to do something. We settled on three drops of herbs and me closing my eyes and telling my trickle of blood to staunch itself. Stop bleeding. Be done.
And it worked.
The trickle dried up, and we were confident we made the right choice. It was two in the morning and rather than call everyone, we all went to sleep. It felt like the right thing to do. The midwife offered to sleep on the couch and I readily accepted.
Around seven in the morning, we all awoke, cheery and dreamily, and started the day. We called family and texted friends. The older kids awoke and took in their new sibling with delight, awe, and glee. They had slept through the entire birth, but were thrilled to wake up to a new little sister.
It all felt right. All because I believed.
Say what?!?