Be careful what you wish for or you just might give birth naturally.
“Too late for the epidural” are now the words looping in my nightmares. I can explain:
When I found out I was pregnant again, I was over the moon. Other than a global pandemic, I can gratefully say my prenatal ride was smooth-sailing.
I had this idea in my mind that second babies come early. While resting my laptop on my basketball stomach eight months in, a few quick Google searches proved that’s not actually the case. Sigh.
I was overdue with my daughter and had to be induced. This time around, I was hoping to go into labour on my own. The journalist in me was straight up curious about what that would feel like.
But after seeing my due date come and go, three “labour induction” acupuncture treatments, and one very sore pelvis, I threw in the natural birth towel and agreed to be induced…again.
The new plan actually sounded kind of nice. Not my first rodeo. I would cue up some 30 Rock, get the epidural right away, and calmly wait for the little dude to arrive at his leisure.
The induction production
The night before my scheduled induction, I was told to go to the hospital to get a foley catheter inserted. It’s basically a tiny balloon they blow up in your cervix to dilate you to three to four centimeters so you’re ready to rock the next day. After awkwardly waiting in a hospital gown, listening to a fellow mom-to-be ream someone out in Arabic on the other side of the fabric curtain (what the hell was going on there?!), the OB checked me and told me I was already four centimeters and didn’t need the foley after all.
A complete stranger put his hand inside my body for no reason. Cool, thanks. Back home I went.
The next day, I was told the hospital was slammed and I wouldn’t be called in to start the induction process until later that afternoon. No worries. I’ll just sit here, on standby for this life-changing event.
All aboard the pain train
I went for a walk around the block (because what the hell else is there to do in lockdown?) and started feeling some cramping. As I waddled home to Harry Styles (Don’t hate. Both his albums are amazing), the pain started getting worse. And then worse. Ruh roh!
Around 2 p.m., the hospital called and asked me to go in for the induction at 3:30 p.m. At that time, I was having steady contractions, but nothing I couldn’t breathe through.
My husband packed about 30 sandwiches in case we needed to stay longer than expected. With COVID, once you check into the hospital, you can’t leave for any reason. Bring your own food or live off the vending machine.
By the time 3:30 rolled around, I was in bonafide labour and needed to get to the hospital, induction or not! I grabbed my hospital bag and we jumped in the car.
Holy Hannah SLOW DOWN! My husband was driving like a maniac. What is this a Fast and Furious sequel? I was having contractions, but not dying. He said this was his one and only chance to speed.
Fair. I get that.
When we arrived, we were greeted and set up in our room. My midwife was tied up with another birth. I was told a nurse would be with us shortly, once she was finished helping with an emergency c-section.
Umm…ow!
Shortly meant two hours later. GOOD LORD! No time for 30 Rock. By then, I was too busy writhing in savage pain. I was NOT mentally prepared for this. My midwife was still MIA. Contractions were coming strong and steady. I think I nearly squeezed my husband’s hand clear off. Kudos to any mamas who choose to fight through this pain.
The nurse was like, “Oh, looks you’ve gone into spontaneous labour.” YA THINK?! What gave it away? Maybe the fact that I looked like Regan from The Exorcist? I promptly requested an epidural. My light at the end of the excruciating pain tunnel.
She came back in and said, “So, I just spoke to the anesthesiologist. He’s just in another case and should be here in about 45 minutes.” You know how long 45 minutes is when you’re in full-blown labour? ETERNITY.
In the meantime, the OB came in and checked me. I was 10 centimetres dilated. He was like, “Wow, okay once your water breaks, this baby’s gonna come out quick.”
The drugs don’t work
The anesthesiologist finally waltzed in and did his thing. I was SO ready for sweet relief from the pain. My saviour. He said it would take about 15 minutes to kick in. But it never did.
The nurse casually whispered to my husband, “It’s too late for the epidural to work.” NOOOOOOOO! Would’ve been a nice fact to know beforehand. The pain only got worse.
I got a giant needle in my back for no reason. Cool, thanks. Back to writhing in pain.
Minutes later, during a particularly bad contraction, my water broke. It was like someone took a pin to a water balloon. It made an actual splash sound and soaked my socks. Gross/embarrassing.
It was time to start pushing. I let out these unexpected weird primal screams. Three pushes later, he was out. The pain instantly went away when they placed him on my chest. Mickey Jones McNulty in the house! All 8 pounds and 13 ounces of him.
Exhale.
I chatted with the doctoral fellow about how good of a show Succession is (so good right?!) as he stitched up my nether region. And that was that.
One new tiny human and 28 uneaten sandwiches.
Would I choose a natural birth again? Hell no.
Am I secretly glad I got to experience it and feel like if I can get through that, I can get through anything? Hell yes.
