I want to believe that it is.
The bath isn’t helping. I turn the water back on, all the way to hot, hoping it will burn away the pain. Having spent the better part of a year soaking in lukewarm baths to keep our baby safe, I am shocked by the heat.
“When I was pregnant—” I start, wanting to explain to Aaron what I am feeling. But I stop, not sure how to continue. Am I still pregnant? I remember the saying, “You can’t be just a little bit pregnant.” We think of pregnancy as a very clear “you are or you aren’t” situation, so much so that it’s inspired the idiom meaning there’s no gray area or uncertainty. But what about when you are still carrying a child, but not a living one? I shudder at the thought and don’t continue my sentence. Aaron doesn’t press me for more.
Soon, I can’t make it through my contractions without clutching Aaron’s hand, fighting back against the force of them. We had decided that we would try to labor at our place for as long as possible—that was one of our only hopes from the start of this pregnancy and we wanted to stick to our basic birth plan as much as possible. But we need help. Aaron calls our doula, Jill—he has been texting her with updates since we were in the hospital—and asks her to come over. My contractions are now just over a minute and a half apart, lasting for sixty seconds. That leaves me thirty seconds of rest in between them, and it isn’t enough. Nothing could ever be enough for this. “I can’t do this without pain relief anymore,” I moan. “We need to go in.”
Aaron looks relieved to have something to do. He calls Jill again and tells her to meet us at the hospital instead, then gathers our things by the door. By 10:50 PM we are off.
Ten minutes later, we are back at Admitting. A nurse greets us, smiling. “Are you having contractions?” she asks cheerfully.
“I am,” I start, pausing to breathe through one. She waits, and I squeeze my eyes shut as I sway. “But we’re here under different circumstances,” I continue. “If you look up my name, you’ll see.”
She looks at me from behind the desk, clearly confused, and asks again if I am in labor. “You’ll just need to sit in the waiting room and we’ll call when we have time to admit you.”
I can’t believe her. How does she not know what happened? How has the whole world not stopped to grieve with us? I shout at her that my baby died, that I was induced, that I need to be seen right away. I am spitting venom at her, and only my depleted energy holds me back from causing an even bigger scene. I am not even embarrassed. I am angry, and that anger feels good.
Another nurse, one I recognize, quickly appears and ushers the baffled nurse to the side. We are taken to a desk where the administrator takes our information. Another contraction starts. I grip the armrests and close my eyes in response. Jill comes in and immediately runs toward us. She places her hands on top of my shoulders, pressing down firmly and whispering, “You’re on top of this.”
A nurse takes us into an admitting room, not the same one we were in earlier, and shuts the door behind her. We wait through more agonizing rushes. I ask for pain relief, whatever they can give me. I’d planned on having an unmedicated birth, but at home I changed my mind and decided I wanted it all. “Anything you want,” Aaron said.
They wheel in some sorry-looking nitrous oxide with a broken hose. I try it for a few contractions and give up. It doesn’t do anything for the pain and it only restricts my breathing, which is strained and quick. Jill puts the TENS machine on me—its electrical pulses are meant to help me cope with the contractions—but it doesn’t have time to work. I’m already in full-blown labor.
Then she tells me, “I am going to take some pictures for you and Aaron.” I look at her quizzically, wondering why we would want pictures of any of this. “You don’t ever have to look at them,” she continues. “But just in case you want them one day, I’ll keep them in a safe place for you.”
“Alright,” I say. I don’t understand, but I trust her.
I request an epidural, as soon as possible. The exhaustion, the emotional toll, the physical pain, the mental agony—they are all at levels beyond what I can handle. If I’m going to finish this, I need just a few minutes to regain an ounce of strength.
Our midwife, Susie, arrives around midnight. She exhales audibly as she steps into the room. Her hair is braided down her back, with small wisps escaping at the nape of her neck. She gathers gloves and gauze and tools from a tray, the crystal bracelets stacked up on her wrists rattling as she works.
“Susie has lost a son too,” Jill says.
“Really?” I gaze at her desperately, and she nods. I can almost sense her ache. I wonder if this kind of pain will be obvious to me now, a secret language spoken among a secret club of the bereaved. Learning that she knows the pain I am feeling, I feel instantly heartbroken and grateful at the same time. There she is, still living, still moving, still delivering babies even. Somehow, she is surviving. Maybe I will too.
Susie asks if she can perform a cervical check. She talks me through each step, gently preparing me for the discomfort. “You’re seven centimeters,” she announces. “I don’t imagine it’ll be long now.” She smiles kindly and hurries out the door to speed up our admitting.
Later, I will learn that the nurses originally booked us into one of the smaller rooms in the windowless birthing suites on the first floor, the ones with paper-thin walls that let in the cries of mothers and babes from the other rooms on all sides. Jill and Susie advocated to move us upstairs, where the rooms are new and spacious and beautifully renovated, with windows looking out to courtyards. Upstairs, we don’t have to see or hear what we’d longed to experience ourselves. Not much can make our situation better, but that small act certainly does. At least our birth will be our own.
At one thirty the anesthesiologist comes in to administer my epidural. He is young, another resident, but he is calm and confident. I start to relax, a little. I’m already fully dilated and can feel the pressure of the baby’s head, but if I have just a few minutes to breathe, everything will be alright. The anesthesiologist numbs a patch on my spine, inserts the epidural catheter, and starts the drip. The cool rush of fluid passes through the tubes over my shoulder and I breathe through the next few contractions. As they start to slow down, I catch my breath. I bring myself back into the room and notice it is unexpectedly calm. Our midwife, our doula, and the labor nurse surround us, steadily going about their jobs. No fussing, no panic, no rush. There is peace—one I imagine could be attributed to God. It’s strange to say, but suddenly the birth feels like the one I’ve been imagining. It feels beautiful.
My waters break in a dramatic gush shortly after the epidural. With one quick check Susie quietly says that it’s time to start pushing, if I’m ready. I look to Aaron and have to blink away the tears. This is it. We are about to bring our son into the world and then, too quickly, say goodbye. I look at the clock—it’s 2:00 AM on our due date—and grip Aaron’s hand as I nod. I start to breathe our baby down and out, fully aware of every movement despite the epidural, as I gently push through each contraction.
“Remember to smile,” Aaron whispers in my ear.
I forget myself for a moment and laugh as I bear down. He squeezes my hand and smiles with me. We’d been told in prenatal classes that smiling during the pushing stage could help minimize tearing. There’s no longer a need to worry for the health of our baby, so he directs his worries to me. That he remembers this and voices it is a tremendous act of love.
Jill keeps assuring me that I’m doing an incredible job. She tells me my body is made for this, encourages me by saying that everything is stretching well. Then finally, a
