Delilah’s entrance into this world was completely unexpected. Traumatic, really. Her birth and the days following were some of the hardest and saddest of my life. And yet, of course, meeting her was the happiest moment of my life, too. I cried tears of joy. Therein lies the common theme running throughout Delilah’s birth story: a mixture of emotions, a pendulum swinging wildly between immense gladness and profound grief.
I had hoped and planned for an unmedicated labor and vaginal delivery. A “natural” birth. We all know how that turned out. (Spoiler: It didn’t.) But let’s back up. Because Delilah’s birth story doesn’t start on Oct. 23. Her sudden early arrival into our lives was put into motion days before.
Aside from the fact that we had to use IVF to conceive, I considered my pregnancy rather uneventful. But one issue did crop up that threatened to throw a wrench in my “natural” birth plans. At my 20 week ultrasound, Greg and I learned that the placenta was too close to my cervix and that if it didn’t move out of the way I would need to deliver via cesarean section. This issue with the placenta usually resolves itself as the uterus (and baby) grows and fortunately we found out that — finally! — at almost 34 weeks, it had moved the requisite two centimeters away from my cervix. Hooray! However, at the same appointment, we learned that there was now a new reason I might need a c-section: baby girl was breech.
We hoped that she would turn on her own, and I tried to give her a nudge in the right direction by doing an exercise designed to get my “butt in the air,” as recommended by my OB. (On the ground, on all fours, head to the floor!) But no such luck. At my Oct. 20 checkup, Delilah was still breech. Since I was 36 weeks pregnant, the chances that she would flip on her own were slim to none. Baby girl was starting to outgrow her cramped quarters and my amniotic fluid would only decrease in the weeks ahead, giving her even less wiggle room. I had already read up on external cephalic version — a procedure in which the baby’s position in the womb is manipulated manually, from the outside — and my midwife recommended that we schedule an ECV for the following Monday if I still wanted a shot at a vaginal delivery.
So on what was the first day of my maternity leave, Greg and I drove to the hospital in Walnut Creek and went up to Labor & Delivery for my 9 a.m. appointment. (When obtaining visitor badges from security the guard asked, “Are you delivering today?” to which we quickly replied, “oh, no!” I’m sure I made a joke about needing baby girl to cook a bit longer. And then, I kid you not, as I approached check-in at L&D a nurse spied my still comparatively small baby bump and commented, “You don’t even look pregnant!” Little did anyone know that I wouldn’t be pregnant for much longer.)
After getting prepped, my OB, Dr. Wells, came in to perform the ECV. But after poking around on my tummy — to get a feel for baby’s position, to see how moveable her head was and to see how I would tolerate the procedure — he gave devastating news: He wouldn’t do the version. Not because of the baby but because of me. Despite my attempts to relax, I was tensing up and visibly uncomfortable with the moderate amount of pressure he was applying to my abdomen. My doctor felt that, whether I wanted to or not, I would fight the procedure. My abdominal muscles were too tight. In order to turn the baby Dr. Wells really needed to dig into my belly and, given how I was reacting, he felt that if he went through with the version I would be in excruciating pain, and most likely it would not be successful.
I was heartbroken and pleaded with my doctor to go ahead, insisting that I would calm down, that I would relax, that I would get into a “zen” state. I didn’t want a c-section and I would bear the pain of the version. Dr. Wells was unconvinced and, though disappointed, I trusted his experience and decision. I knew going into the procedure that he wouldn’t do it if he believed it would be unsuccessful or pose a risk to the baby. But he did offer me an alternative: I could try the version with an epidural.
I had conflicting feelings about this option, though. It seemed counter to everything I was hoping to achieve. I wanted an unmedicated birth, so why would I get an epidural in order to have one? We tentatively scheduled to return to the hospital that evening, at 5:30, for the epidural-assisted version, and in the meantime Greg and I went home to further think over this option. I spent the rest of the morning and that afternoon debating back and forth. I called my mom. I texted my best friend. Greg was on board with whatever I decided. Ultimately, it seemed to me that an epidural was inevitably. Either get it for the ECV or get it for a c-section. The ability to have a vaginal birth was important to me, so I decided to forge ahead with a medicated external cephalic version.
We drove back to the hospital and I was prepped once again. The anesthesiologist came in to start the epidural, which was painful but not unbearably so. Still, my sweet husband teared up watching me have to get the very thing I had been trying to avoid. I was also given a shot with medication aimed at relaxing the uterus. When the time came to start, the epidural was still mild — I wasn’t in labor, after all. They just needed me to be numb enough to be comfortable and not resist the version. After once again checking out baby on the ultrasound monitor, Dr. Wells fully lubed up my belly so it was nice and slippery. He placed his hand low on my abdomen and did one small upward movement. Immediately, I felt a wet warmth between my legs, but it took me a few seconds to realize that I needed to communicate this feeling to my doctor.
“Something is happening down there,” I said. “Something is coming out of me.”
The doctor lifted the sheet across my lap and his face said it all. The way he looked at the nurse, stunned and concerned, I knew what was coming. What I didn’t know was why, but I found out later that I had a placental abruption. With one small movement gently shifting upward baby's bottom, my placenta had torn away from the uterine wall and the fluid I felt pouring out of me was blood — a lot of it.
Dr. Wells took a long breath before speaking.
“Well, I think the best thing to do is get you delivered.”
And with that I went into a strange, trance-like state. A weird sense of calm washed over me. I let my head fall back into the bed pillow and stared at the ceiling. I knew I had no control over what happened next. Greg, on the other hand, was hysterical. He leapt out of his chair, his hands grasping his head in disbelief, a look of confusion and fear on his face. This part is a bit of a blur, but I think I told Greg “it’ll be OK” as they wheeled me out of the procedure room, straight across the hall into the operating room.
It all happened so fast that Greg couldn’t come with me, but luckily I was already prepped for a c-section. The IV and epidural were already started. There was a flurry of activity around me, as the medical team finished prepping me and themselves for surgery, and the anesthesiologist upped my epidural. Within minutes, I could feel Dr. Wells cutting into me. Yep, I could feel everything, I just didn’t feel any pain. But that didn’t make it any less scary. I kept asking for my husband, I wished to hold his hand. I could feel the doctor spreading apart my insides in order to get to the baby and although it didn’t hurt it was a frightening sensation. I think I started crying out, “Oh my god, oh my god,” and a nurse asked if I was OK, to which I exclaimed, “It doesn’t hurt, it just feels crazy!”
Next thing I know, I felt — or at least, I believe I felt — the doctor pulling Delilah out of me. I couldn’t see anything, but I distinctly remember visualizing what I was feeling. And yet, because of the shock of it all, it took a moment for me to realize that the baby I heard crying was mine.
She was here.
In a matter of minutes, Delilah was born. At 6:08 p.m.
Remarkably, only nine minutes had elapsed from the time they wheeled me out of the procedure room to when Delilah took her first breath. Nine minutes. Those nine minutes simultaneously flew by and felt like forever.
Outfitted in scrubs, Greg was finally allowed into the room about five minutes later. Unfortunately, he didn’t get to cut the umbilical cord but he did get to see and hold our daughter first. She was weighed and measured and probably cleaned off some while I lay on the operating table, still in that surreal state, a bit disconnected from reality. I didn't snap out of it until a nurse eventually brought Delilah out from behind the surgical drape. She was bundled up in a blanket. All I could see was her tiny, sweet face and I instantly broke into heavy sobs.
A few of those tears were for the way everything unfolded; it wasn’t how it was supposed to happen. But most of those tears were out of true joy at the sight of my girl. I never really imagined what she would look like, and seeing her for the first time felt a little like a surprise.
She was early, but she was perfect. I wasn’t ready, but she was mine.
There's more to the story... Stay tuned for Part II! (Update: Here's the link to the rest of the story!)
