There are only two times in my life that I remember very vividly holding my mother’s hand. During both of these occasions, I was exhausted, in pain, and lying on a hospital bed.
When I was in the fourth grade, I severely broke my left ring finger. By severe, I mean that I broke an entire actual piece of bone off my knuckle. I had to have two surgeries: one to put pins in my finger, and one to take them out. I’ve never been able to remember much about that first surgery, but I’ll always remember the second; it took place on my brithday, and my doctor had offered to play “Happy Birthday” for me, on his harmonica. Had I not been too tired that early in the morning, I might have reminded him of his offer. I opnened my eyes after the surgery to see my mom leaning over my hopsital bed. She was holding my hand and brushing my bangs aside. I remember her tearing up when she saw me awake, and leaning down to give me a hug. I remember the way she smelled most of all; she’s had the same perfume—or similar—my whole life. Each Wednesday, when she brings Louie home from their playdate, he smells just like her and suddenly, I’m taken back to those two hospital beds where I needed my mom more than I ever had.
I don’t believe that my mom and I ever held hands again, until last year, on the night of March 15th, and into morning.
On March 8th, 2019, Louie’s due date, I went to my doctor’s office for a check up. I had just felt my very first Braxton Hicks contraction and I was so sure that it meant my body was preparing for labor. I was endlessly excited. However, I was endlessly disappointed when my doctor told me that I was only a fingertip dilated and my cervix was hard. In the words of J.R.R. Tolkien(but not nearly so sinister), “The way is shut.” I wasn’t giving birth any time soon, I would need to be induced. He gave me a week.
I cried alone in the bathroom behind a clsoed door every night that following week. I was so embarassed at how upset the thought of being induced made me. I wanted to do it on my own, and more than anything, I wanted my baby right now.
Ryan and I tried everything to try and induce labor, during the days following up to my induciton date; from me running up and down the stairs for twenty minutes at a time, to eating an entire pineapple in the hopes that the acid would soften my cervix. We had no such luck with any of the Old Wive’s Tales that my Google search had to offer. All I got was a mouth full of sores, and more tired than necessary.
On March 14th, at 8pm—on the dot—I called the hospital to tell them to expect me in for an induction, just has my doctor had told me to do. By this time, I had surrendered to whatever needed to be done. Ryan and I were giddy. This was it! This was the big day! He could be born in a matter of hours! We packed our things in the car and drove across the street to the hospital.
At exactly 9pm, I was given a pill, vaginally, and the nurse said “Good night!” Ryan settled in on the fold out bed by the window and I sat with my thoughts in the hospital bed, wondering when it would start. Nurses came and went. Hours went by. I twiddled my thumbs. I relayed my birth plan: no epidural. natural birth. No C-section. Skin to skin. Breastfeeding. And then I began to feel uncomfortable. Ryan fed me suckers and ice chips and we talked and talked.
Eventually, the doctor came in to break my water. It had felt like a big water balloon popping inside me. And eventually, I was put on pitocin.
Then I was in pain.
I’ve heard women talk about pressure on their tailbones, or in their lower back, or in thier hips. I felt it everywhere. My teeth hurt. We tried to go for a walk around the halls. I tried standing at the edge of the bed. I tried siting on my knees with my face in a pillow. I was asked if I’d like a birthing ball, or if I would like to take a shower.
Then my parent’s came to bring Ryan food. They came two times. The second time, they didn’t leave until I finally heard Louie’s cries.
I labored naturally for thirty-two hours.
When my parents brought dinner for Ryan on March 15th, my mom took Ryan’s place at my side. I hadn’t wanted anyone in the room beside Ryan and the necessary staff when I gave birth, but as I was nearing the height of labor, I clung desperately to my mother; her hand, her perfume, her voice. She stood by my side and soothed me with images of trees and beaches. She breathed through each contraction with me. I crushed her fingers harder and harder, each moan getting louder as the contractions intensified.
At one point, a midwife empoyed at my doctor’s office came into my hospital room before she went home after a long shift. I was feeling massive discomfort in my ribs, and she suggested that I try to relieve the pain by emptying my bladder. She and my mom practically carried me to the bathroom, where I immediately started screaming as soon as I sat on the toilet. The midwife looked excited and said “Those sound like mommy noises!” they lifted me from the toilet and she ordered Ryan to put some music on for me. It was starting for real. I chose “Wake Up”, by Arcade Fire. Things began to happen. But as it turned out, twenty hours into labor, my body still did not want to let go of my baby. I was only at six centimeters dilated. I remember looking back at the machine that was pumpin pitocin into my system and quickly reminding myself never to look at it again. It was set at a 12.
I was exhausted, and what little medication they could give me only made it worse. I quite literally passed out between contractions. Once medications began to wear off and I was somewhat coherant, the nurses instructed me to give little pushes every few breaths. It helped to take focus off of pain and focus instead on breathing. But it wasn’t much.
About an hour and a half before Louie was born, a nurse realized that during labor, Louie had shifted and now had his head turned to my right. The pain of laboring on my side took me back to the hospital bed in fourth grade. I wanted my mom to take me home. I wanted her to tell them to make it stop. As a matter of fact, my dad told me that I did tell her to make it stop. I almost broke my mother’s fingers as I howled like a wounded animal.
Then, finally, I had the irrisistable urge to push. It came on suddenly, and I knew right away what it was. “I need to push!” I screamed. I had never felt an urge quite as strong. There was a flurry of activity around me; my moms fingers in my hair as she pulled my hair back up into a ponytail, Ryan standing in the corner completely at a loss, a nurse standing before me, her face inches from mine, yelling at me in a strangely calming tone to focus on my breath, and the sound of the door slamming to keep my screams from leaving the room. I was suddenly being told to lift my feet into the stirrups. It took every bit of my concentration to do as the nurses instructed and ignore the urge to push until it was time.
Then, he came gliding calmly into the room. It seemed to me then, that everything slowed down. Everyone was quiet. We were all holding our breath. The doctor nodded at my mom and the nurse beside me. And then I pushed.
Between pushes, I heard my doctor say to Ryan, “She’s really good at pushing.”
“Yeah. She’s a tough one.” Ryan replied, he looked at me with so much pride in that moment.
“She must be.” said the doctor. “She’s been in labor for 32 hours with no epidural.”
After twenty minutes of determination, and a bit of anger, and a bit of desperation, the doctor told me “Push! Push! Push!” then suddenly… I was empty.
There’s no other way to describe it. “He’s pink!” I hear the doctor exclaim. I looked down between my legs to see a baby in his hands. My baby. I was shocked. I looked to Ryan in shock, and saw everything I felt mirrored in his face. It was as though my body had gone numb; every bit of my focus was now on the cries that I had dreamt of for nine months. I had wanted nothing more than to hear those cries, and there they were. My mom kissed my forehead and whispered, “I’m so proud of you.” she was sobbing. I had no tears. I thought I would cry, but I was still so shocked. It had taken so long, yet it had happened so fast.
“Do you want him on your chest?” they asked.
I began ripping desperately at my hospital dress, my hands shaking and weak.
Then he was there. His cries stopped and he was there on my chest. Both of us comforted and content. I remember sighing in relief. How good it felt to finally feel him there in my arms. To feel his little feet kick on the outside. To touch his tiny fingers and kiss his little head.
My mom kissed him over and over again and as she leaned over both of us. “He looks just like you! Look how angry he is! he has your nose!"
Ryan stared in disbelief as Louie’s fingers wrapped around his right index finger.
It was all so beautiful.
Louie was born at 1:06 AM on March 16th, 2019. It would have been my Great Grandma Zeltha’s 100th birthday. He weighed 8lbs. and 10z., measuring 21 1/2” long. By some miraculous coincidence, Pandora had started playing Louis Armstrong right before my last big push. Louie was born to the words “what a wonderful world.”
And it is. It really, truly is.
Louie’s first brithday is in five days. Writing this, it feels as though it was only yesterday, as cliche as that may sound. We’ve been through so much since Louie entered our lives, and I can’t imagine how it could get any better than this, but tomorrow, I’m sure, I’ll be proved wrong as I have been day after day after day.
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My next post will be going live on March 25th, 2020.
As of right now, blog posts will be biweekly, on Wednesdays. If you’ve been reading long enough, you’ll know that’s subject to change. I’ll be announcing the date of new posts at the end of each post, the top of the blog home page, my Instagram bio, and Instagram stories. So you can’t miss it!
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Blog: @smalltown.squirrel
Art Page: @thesquirrelshollow
Personal: @sh3rlc3
