My youngest child just celebrated his fourth birthday. He’s a vibrant bundle of energy—smart, sweet, and occasionally a little troublemaker. However, my experience during his pregnancy was anything but pleasant. I don’t mean the typical discomforts like swelling or nausea. No, I mean my pelvis felt like it was literally breaking apart.
At one point, I found myself crawling around the house, gathering toys. When you’re stuck on the couch, you do what you have to do. He was expected on March 24, which meant I might either tend to my garden on my hands and knees or with a baby strapped to my back. Starting at just 14 weeks, I had daily contractions; my uterus was like a cranky toddler throwing a tantrum.
The final week of my pregnancy was a blur of consistent contractions, coming every eight to ten minutes. On March 26, during a night filled with these relentless contractions, my water broke. It wasn’t an overwhelming rush, but enough to warrant changing clothes and sheets. I woke up my partner, Jake, telling him I had an accident and asked him to fill the birthing pool in the kitchen. I called my midwife—a wise woman in her seventies, with her long gray hair neatly tied up. When I told her things weren’t progressing quickly, she assured me she’d be there by morning.
I also called my doula, who arrived promptly, and my eldest daughter, Mia, who was 17 at the time, to watch over my youngest daughter, Lila, who wasn’t even two yet. I even made a chocolate cake because, you know, that’s just what I do.
Despite our preparations, the situation didn’t change much. By the afternoon, my midwife suggested I take some tinctures to stimulate contractions. I nursed my 17-month-old to help coax things along, and my midwife stepped out for a quick grocery run. Still, no baby.
As the contractions intensified, so did the crowd around me. My birthing pool became a hub of activity, filled with people enjoying the chicken noodle soup I had made and frozen weeks prior. Yet, my baby seemed content well above my pelvis, refusing to descend.
As evening turned to night, Jake tucked Lila into bed while the house buzzed with chatter from a handful of friends and family. Approaching the 24-hour mark since my water broke, I was stuck at 7 to 8 centimeters, completely exhausted and increasingly anxious, especially given the lingering effects of a past traumatic birth experience.
Jake and I took a shower, where he helped soothe my back while I made whale-like sounds through each contraction. We managed to squeeze in a bit of sleep, but when we woke, we knew we had to make a heart-wrenching decision: leave the comfort of our home, our birthing pool, and family behind to head to the hospital.
At this moment, many might say things like, “Thank goodness you transferred” or “All you wanted was a healthy baby, right?” But for me, I sobbed as I put on a dress, cried while packing my bag, and wept through the goodbyes with my children. The drive to the hospital was a blur of tears, and I cried through every step of the intake process, from wearing a hospital gown to getting an IV.
I was fortunate to have a team of professionals advocating for a natural birth, and even though I was led to a small amount of pitocin, I still sobbed throughout the process. My midwife stayed by my side for hours, working to help my stubborn son find his way. Eventually, after a couple of strong pushes, my healthy baby boy arrived, weighing over ten pounds.
But even with all the luck in the world, this was not the birth I had envisioned. I had hoped for a peaceful experience, cradling my baby in our kitchen, surrounded by family, with cake and celebration. Instead, it became a series of unexpected events that left me feeling lost.
I don’t want to hear anyone say, “At least your baby is healthy.”