Lola's Birth Story
My due date of January 20th had come and gone. I never in a million years expected to be a post dates mama, but there I was, a hot, emotional, sweaty mess at 40.3 weeks.
I saw my doctor that day who laughed when she walked into the exam room. "I CANNOT believe you're still pregnant," she laughed.
Yeah, me neither, lady. Incompetent cervix, my eye.
Don't get me wrong, I adore my doctor, but I guess you could say I was a little done at this point. I finally understood why women hate the last few weeks, and while I was glad and so, so grateful to experience a term pregnancy, I was anxious for it to end.
It wasn't just because I was uncomfortable or that everything hurt--I had a lot of real, raw anxiety about being pregnant. Maybe because I had a 24 weeker. Maybe because I had a rescue cerclage placed with this pregnancy and saw a specialist every week. Maybe because being on bedrest for over 10 weeks had made me a crazy, irrational, worried woman. Maybe because nothing had ever been this ok in any of my pregnancies and I was afraid it was too good to be true.
Every night for weeks, I had dreams about all the kids I'd taken care of in the NICU who were nasty meconium births, 41 week crash sections, or HIE kids who had to be cooled. Being term definitely didn't make all my worries magically disappear.
My doctor checked my cervix and told me it hadn't changed since the last week. Still 3 cm, 80 percent. I clamped my teeth together and forced myself to blink. I wanted to cry.
After the disappointing doctor's visit, I went to the hospital for an NST, because, you know, I was post dates. They said my fluid was borderline low. Lola also had a mild decel with a contraction. The nurse said she would talk to a perinatologist and see what to do.
The next thing I know, my favorite doctor from MFM walks into the room laughing (why do people keep doing that!) and says, "how in the heck are YOU 40 weeks?!"
Again. I do not know, but I'm glad it's comical for everyone.
She said that given how things were looking she'd recommend I deliver. She must have seen the relief in my eyes because she said, "you're welcome" and squeezed my arm as she left the room.
I went up to labor and delivery and was told there were no rooms available. Perks to delivering in Provo, Utah-- aka baby city. Typical, I thought. I wasn't at all surprised this was happening to me and resolved myself to camp out in that waiting room until it was my turn.
It took a few hours, but finally, I had a room. With a view even! Ben had arrived and the admission was underway.
As monitors were hooked up and an IV was started, Ben and I talked about how different this felt from when Jude was born. No one was shoving Mag into my system, giving me steroid shots, or starting antibiotics. No gang of nurses and doctors huddled around my bedside anxiously watching my baby's strip. No Neonatologist had been rushed to my bedside to talk about the grim chances of survival for my child.
It was so calm and peaceful, like la de da, we're having a baby. Instead of absolute, justified fear, there was hope. Hope that things would go well and our daughter would arrive healthy and strong.
Pitocin was started at a very low dose given the fact I was attempting a VBAC and it didn't take long to start feeling strong, consistant contractions.
My doctor arrived awhile later to break my water and give me a little pep talk. She reminded me that being my first vaginal delivery attempt, labor may take awhile, but as long as my baby looked good, she would support me in delivering vaginally (she really is the best, guys). She also said I would likely push for a few hours.
We can't control the size of your baby or how quickly you progress, but you can decide how you respond to labor and how hard you push.
I loved how honest she was with me and her ability to motivate me by reminding me what I COULD control in this situation.
Internal monitors were placed to have a more accurate measurement of uterine pressure an fetal well being and my doctor checked me before she left. You guessed it: 3 cm, 80 percent.
About an hour after my water broke, contractions started to get real. Like, oh, my lands, why does anyone choose to do this without drugs, real.
I knew I would get an epidural eventually, but held off. All my L&D nurse friends had recommended waiting for an epidural until I was in active labor. Plus, my nurse said the anesthesiologist was ready at a moments notice if I changed my mind.
So I waited. The bed had started to feel claustrophobic and I desperately felt the need to move. I stood by the side of the bed and rocked. With eyes closed, I visualized my stubborn, psycho cervix opening and my baby descending with each contraction.
The cable had gone out (again, typical), so my main means of distracting myself was gone. Luckily, my sister and husband were there and advocating for me; suggesting different positions, massaging my head, and applying counter pressure to my back.
I tried a birthing ball. Hated it. Tried to labor in bed on my side. Almost died. The only thing that helped were cool washcloths on my neck and pressure on my lower back while I stood and swayed side to side.
I had had enough. I told myself I would wait for my next check (30 more minutes) and then get an epidural.
Longest half hour ever.
My nurse checked me and congratulated me on being 7 cm, 100 percent.
Hallelujah. Active freaking labor. Now give me those god-sent drugs.
But there was a problem with that little plan. There were a few c-sections happening at that moment and the anesthesiologist was tied up and would be for probably the next hour.
Oh, you have GOT to be kidding me. Typical.
I asked what my options were, hoping my nurse was actually an anesthesiologist in training and could put a freaking needle in my back. No luck.
She suggested some lousy Fentanyl and generously offered it once every hour. A few choice words went through my head.
Whelp, it did nothing but make my head foggy and at this point, I was a little hysterical. I remember crying and asking my sister why no one would help me. She said they were trying and kept stroking my hair, keeping her eye on my monitor as contractions came every minute.
I don't remember how long it took for the anesthesiologist to arrive, but he took one look at me and got right to work saying he hoped the epidural would kick in before I had to push.
I looked at Ben and mouthed, Whaaaaatt?! This was so not how I envisioned this. My nurse kept saying I was so tough and such a hero and I wanted to shout, "I DO NOT want to be tough. I have nothing to prove!"
I sent a prayer to heaven asking for strength and for that stinking epidural to kick in as my nurse checked me again. I was dilated to 9 cm and she called out for someone to get my doctor there.
A few minutes later, I felt the sweet relief of the epidural and I smiled for the first time in hours. I felt on top of the world, ready to push for all I was worth. I could still move around, but the crushing pain of constant contractions had ended.
So after about five hours of intense labor, I was complete. My doctor had arrived and we tried some "practice" pushes. Lola's head appeared after two of them and her full head of dark hair got me all excited and ready to see her.
As I pushed with the next contraction, Lola's heart rate dropped. Low. My head jerked to the monitor and then back to my doctor. She met my eyes and said, Ok, time to get this baby out, Whitney.
The nurse gave me some oxygen and we waited for Lola to recover. It seemed like hours listening to that low thud of her heart rate rise again. I pushed again with a contraction. She deceled again and I remembered what my doctor had said earlier. You can decide how you respond to labor and how hard you push.
At this point, my doctor said she was going to have me continue to push between contractions. My nurse got a mirror so I could see what was happening. Little Lola was so close to being in my arms and I pushed with all my might. I got a glimpse of my contorted, purple face and thought, whelp, it's not pretty, but it's working.
After about ten minutes of pushing, my doctor told me if I could just do one more giant, hard push, my baby would be there. I nodded, feeling determined, refusing to listen to Lola's low heart rate in the background. I focused on Ben's voice, comforting me and praising my efforts.
I pushed until I thought my face was exploding (turns out, I actually broke blood vessels on my face and back from pushing like a maniac) and felt a ton of pressure followed by a sweet little scream. I laughed with relief as Lola continued to cry and Ben cut the cord.
The moment my doctor handed my baby to me was magical. Nothing prepares you to look into your baby's eyes for the first time and feel such a rush of love and emotion. As I looked at her sweet face and dried off her little body, I forgot how hard the last few months had been. The buckets of vomit, thick peanut butter shots, weekly ultrasounds, endless appointments, months of bedrest, constant worry and anxiety were not in vain. She was perfect and at that moment, I felt a little piece of my heart heal. My body had done it--grown and carried a baby and given birth like I never believed I could.
Tears flowed freely from most people in the room as we snuggled, kissed, and relished in the miracle of birth and life.
We continued to cuddle our little girl for awhile until she pooped on me. Very nice, Lola. I handed her to the nurse who weighed and measured her, cleaned her up, and brought her back to me for some more skin to skin time.
My nurse brought me a sandwich (bless you, good woman) and I handed Lola to Ben to hold. She looked so much like him, seeing them together was so sweet. Jude is my mini and now Ben had his.
What a beautiful, intense, emotion filled day. I felt so blessed. I looked at my daughter, so grateful for modern medicine, wonderful doctors and nurses, and a loving, merciful God for making this day possible.
I saw my doctor that day who laughed when she walked into the exam room. "I CANNOT believe you're still pregnant," she laughed.
Yeah, me neither, lady. Incompetent cervix, my eye.
Don't get me wrong, I adore my doctor, but I guess you could say I was a little done at this point. I finally understood why women hate the last few weeks, and while I was glad and so, so grateful to experience a term pregnancy, I was anxious for it to end.
It wasn't just because I was uncomfortable or that everything hurt--I had a lot of real, raw anxiety about being pregnant. Maybe because I had a 24 weeker. Maybe because I had a rescue cerclage placed with this pregnancy and saw a specialist every week. Maybe because being on bedrest for over 10 weeks had made me a crazy, irrational, worried woman. Maybe because nothing had ever been this ok in any of my pregnancies and I was afraid it was too good to be true.
Every night for weeks, I had dreams about all the kids I'd taken care of in the NICU who were nasty meconium births, 41 week crash sections, or HIE kids who had to be cooled. Being term definitely didn't make all my worries magically disappear.
My doctor checked my cervix and told me it hadn't changed since the last week. Still 3 cm, 80 percent. I clamped my teeth together and forced myself to blink. I wanted to cry.
After the disappointing doctor's visit, I went to the hospital for an NST, because, you know, I was post dates. They said my fluid was borderline low. Lola also had a mild decel with a contraction. The nurse said she would talk to a perinatologist and see what to do.
The next thing I know, my favorite doctor from MFM walks into the room laughing (why do people keep doing that!) and says, "how in the heck are YOU 40 weeks?!"
Again. I do not know, but I'm glad it's comical for everyone.
She said that given how things were looking she'd recommend I deliver. She must have seen the relief in my eyes because she said, "you're welcome" and squeezed my arm as she left the room.
I went up to labor and delivery and was told there were no rooms available. Perks to delivering in Provo, Utah-- aka baby city. Typical, I thought. I wasn't at all surprised this was happening to me and resolved myself to camp out in that waiting room until it was my turn.
It took a few hours, but finally, I had a room. With a view even! Ben had arrived and the admission was underway.
As monitors were hooked up and an IV was started, Ben and I talked about how different this felt from when Jude was born. No one was shoving Mag into my system, giving me steroid shots, or starting antibiotics. No gang of nurses and doctors huddled around my bedside anxiously watching my baby's strip. No Neonatologist had been rushed to my bedside to talk about the grim chances of survival for my child.
It was so calm and peaceful, like la de da, we're having a baby. Instead of absolute, justified fear, there was hope. Hope that things would go well and our daughter would arrive healthy and strong.
Pitocin was started at a very low dose given the fact I was attempting a VBAC and it didn't take long to start feeling strong, consistant contractions.
My doctor arrived awhile later to break my water and give me a little pep talk. She reminded me that being my first vaginal delivery attempt, labor may take awhile, but as long as my baby looked good, she would support me in delivering vaginally (she really is the best, guys). She also said I would likely push for a few hours.
We can't control the size of your baby or how quickly you progress, but you can decide how you respond to labor and how hard you push.
I loved how honest she was with me and her ability to motivate me by reminding me what I COULD control in this situation.
Internal monitors were placed to have a more accurate measurement of uterine pressure an fetal well being and my doctor checked me before she left. You guessed it: 3 cm, 80 percent.
About an hour after my water broke, contractions started to get real. Like, oh, my lands, why does anyone choose to do this without drugs, real.
I knew I would get an epidural eventually, but held off. All my L&D nurse friends had recommended waiting for an epidural until I was in active labor. Plus, my nurse said the anesthesiologist was ready at a moments notice if I changed my mind.
So I waited. The bed had started to feel claustrophobic and I desperately felt the need to move. I stood by the side of the bed and rocked. With eyes closed, I visualized my stubborn, psycho cervix opening and my baby descending with each contraction.
The cable had gone out (again, typical), so my main means of distracting myself was gone. Luckily, my sister and husband were there and advocating for me; suggesting different positions, massaging my head, and applying counter pressure to my back.
I tried a birthing ball. Hated it. Tried to labor in bed on my side. Almost died. The only thing that helped were cool washcloths on my neck and pressure on my lower back while I stood and swayed side to side.
I had had enough. I told myself I would wait for my next check (30 more minutes) and then get an epidural.
Longest half hour ever.
My nurse checked me and congratulated me on being 7 cm, 100 percent.
Hallelujah. Active freaking labor. Now give me those god-sent drugs.
But there was a problem with that little plan. There were a few c-sections happening at that moment and the anesthesiologist was tied up and would be for probably the next hour.
Oh, you have GOT to be kidding me. Typical.
I asked what my options were, hoping my nurse was actually an anesthesiologist in training and could put a freaking needle in my back. No luck.
She suggested some lousy Fentanyl and generously offered it once every hour. A few choice words went through my head.
Whelp, it did nothing but make my head foggy and at this point, I was a little hysterical. I remember crying and asking my sister why no one would help me. She said they were trying and kept stroking my hair, keeping her eye on my monitor as contractions came every minute.
I don't remember how long it took for the anesthesiologist to arrive, but he took one look at me and got right to work saying he hoped the epidural would kick in before I had to push.
I looked at Ben and mouthed, Whaaaaatt?! This was so not how I envisioned this. My nurse kept saying I was so tough and such a hero and I wanted to shout, "I DO NOT want to be tough. I have nothing to prove!"
I sent a prayer to heaven asking for strength and for that stinking epidural to kick in as my nurse checked me again. I was dilated to 9 cm and she called out for someone to get my doctor there.
A few minutes later, I felt the sweet relief of the epidural and I smiled for the first time in hours. I felt on top of the world, ready to push for all I was worth. I could still move around, but the crushing pain of constant contractions had ended.
So after about five hours of intense labor, I was complete. My doctor had arrived and we tried some "practice" pushes. Lola's head appeared after two of them and her full head of dark hair got me all excited and ready to see her.
As I pushed with the next contraction, Lola's heart rate dropped. Low. My head jerked to the monitor and then back to my doctor. She met my eyes and said, Ok, time to get this baby out, Whitney.
The nurse gave me some oxygen and we waited for Lola to recover. It seemed like hours listening to that low thud of her heart rate rise again. I pushed again with a contraction. She deceled again and I remembered what my doctor had said earlier. You can decide how you respond to labor and how hard you push.
At this point, my doctor said she was going to have me continue to push between contractions. My nurse got a mirror so I could see what was happening. Little Lola was so close to being in my arms and I pushed with all my might. I got a glimpse of my contorted, purple face and thought, whelp, it's not pretty, but it's working.
After about ten minutes of pushing, my doctor told me if I could just do one more giant, hard push, my baby would be there. I nodded, feeling determined, refusing to listen to Lola's low heart rate in the background. I focused on Ben's voice, comforting me and praising my efforts.
I pushed until I thought my face was exploding (turns out, I actually broke blood vessels on my face and back from pushing like a maniac) and felt a ton of pressure followed by a sweet little scream. I laughed with relief as Lola continued to cry and Ben cut the cord.
The moment my doctor handed my baby to me was magical. Nothing prepares you to look into your baby's eyes for the first time and feel such a rush of love and emotion. As I looked at her sweet face and dried off her little body, I forgot how hard the last few months had been. The buckets of vomit, thick peanut butter shots, weekly ultrasounds, endless appointments, months of bedrest, constant worry and anxiety were not in vain. She was perfect and at that moment, I felt a little piece of my heart heal. My body had done it--grown and carried a baby and given birth like I never believed I could.
Tears flowed freely from most people in the room as we snuggled, kissed, and relished in the miracle of birth and life.
We continued to cuddle our little girl for awhile until she pooped on me. Very nice, Lola. I handed her to the nurse who weighed and measured her, cleaned her up, and brought her back to me for some more skin to skin time.
My nurse brought me a sandwich (bless you, good woman) and I handed Lola to Ben to hold. She looked so much like him, seeing them together was so sweet. Jude is my mini and now Ben had his.
What a beautiful, intense, emotion filled day. I felt so blessed. I looked at my daughter, so grateful for modern medicine, wonderful doctors and nurses, and a loving, merciful God for making this day possible.
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| I had just started to feel contractions--hence the face. |
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| Our sweet view. |
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| My sister Jessica. She's seen me in my best and worst times. |
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| BEST HOSPITAL EVER. |
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| Ben looking at the huge, close, contractions on the monitor. |
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| He was my rock. |
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| The "I finally got my freaking epidural" smile. |
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| Joy. |
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| Heaven. |
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| 7 pounds, 4 ounces. 20.5 inches long. |
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| My angel, Lola James. |
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| Smiles during 3 am feedings. |
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| Going home. No monitors or oxygen or carseat trials. Madness if you ask me. |
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