My youngest son just celebrated his fourth birthday. He’s an energetic bundle of joy—clever, affectionate, and at times, a little mischievous. But let me tell you, my pregnancy with him was anything but pleasant. It wasn’t just the usual complaints of swollen ankles or back pain; my body felt like it was literally falling apart.
There was a time when I found myself crawling around the house, picking up toys because I was stuck on the sofa. He was due on March 24, which meant I feared I would either be planting the garden on my hands and knees or with a baby slung on my back. From 14 weeks on, I experienced daily contractions, as my uterus was as temperamental as a toddler.
The final week of my pregnancy felt like an endless labor. I had consistent contractions every eight to ten minutes—frustrating and exhausting. Then, on March 26, in the midst of a night filled with painful contractions, my water broke. It wasn’t a dramatic gush, but enough to require a change of clothes and sheets.
I woke up my partner, Jack, and told him I had an accident. I asked him to fill the birthing pool in the kitchen. While I called my midwife—an experienced woman with a calming presence—I contacted my doula and my oldest daughter, Mia, to help with my youngest, Bella, who was not yet two. In the midst of all this, I baked a chocolate cake (because that’s how I cope) and made some buttercream frosting.
As the hours dragged on, I tried various methods to induce labor, including some rather unpalatable herbal tinctures suggested by my midwife. The contractions continued, but there was little progress. The atmosphere in the room shifted as more people arrived, and as the day turned into evening, I felt pressure mounting—not just from the contractions but from the growing concern in the room.
As night fell, Jack put Bella to bed amidst the chaos of family and friends, and my contractions remained stubbornly the same. After nearly 24 hours since my water broke, I was still stuck at 7 to 8 centimeters. The exhaustion was pervasive, and I felt anxiety creeping in, exacerbated by my previous experience with shoulder dystocia.
We took a shower together, and Jack supported me through each contraction, but when we finally lay down, I knew something had to change. After a brief rest, we made the heartbreaking decision to leave the comfort of our home and head to the hospital. This is where people might say, “At least you transferred,” or “All you wanted was a healthy baby, right?” But I couldn’t help but cry as I dressed, packed my bag, and hugged my kids goodbye. The drive to the hospital was filled with tears.
At the hospital, I sobbed through the intake process, the IV insertion, and despite the supportive care team advocating for my natural birth, I still cried. They were incredible, especially my midwife who stayed by my side for hours, helping my son navigate his way into the world.
I was fortunate; I didn’t need a C-section, and after just two powerful pushes, my son arrived—healthy and weighing over ten pounds. But still, I couldn’t shake the feeling of loss. This was not the birth experience I had envisioned. I had imagined a serene home birth, surrounded by loved ones, with cake and celebration awaiting.
I want to clarify: I do not want to hear anyone say, “Well, at least he’s healthy.” That statement undermines the complexity of the experience and the emotional journey that accompanies it.
If you want to learn more about pregnancy experiences and insights, check out this related blog post. Also, for those considering at-home insemination, Make A Mom offers reliable syringe kits. For an excellent resource on pregnancy and home insemination, visit News Medical.
In summary, while I welcomed my son into the world healthy, the emotional toll of a less-than-ideal birth experience left me grappling with an unexpected sense of loss.
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