"You are not hidden
There's never been a moment
You were forgotten
You are not hopeless
Though you have been broken
I hear you whisper underneath your breath
I hear your SOS, your SOS
I will send out an army to find you
In the middle of the darkest night
It's true, I will rescue you
There is no distance
That cannot be covered
Over and over
You're not defenseless
I'll be your shelter
I'll be your armor"
"You got it."
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
Partly due to Stephen's demanding schedule, partly due to my past quick labors and partly due to my unbelievable impatience, we set the date - I was going to be induced on November 23rd.
On Thursday evening, November 21st, I started experiencing some odd pains. They were primarily on my left side and they came on suddenly and sharp - shooting pains that caused baby to move, limbs jutting out of me as if frantically trying to escape, followed by a contraction and then cramping. There was no real rhyme or reason to them but no position and no amount of rest and water was making them go away. I fell asleep timing contractions that night, more confused by the pain than consumed by the thought of potential labor. Come Friday morning the pain was more persistent, though I had been able to sleep some. Every five minutes the pain would come, and a moment later a contraction would start. It seemed to last forever. It became hard to breathe and I couldn't take a deep inhale. I couldn't cough or sneeze and my stomach was extremely sensitive to the the touch.
When I went in to be monitored, I was dilated to a 2. Baby was fine and the contractions weren't consistent, but they couldn't explain the pain. We waited for an hour, expecting the pain medications to kick in, but they never did. Now, I was dilated to a 3. Our doctor assumed I was in early labor, contractions manifesting themselves in an unusual (and extra uncomfortable) way. I have had four babies now and this is the first time labor had ever brought me to tears. We had the option to hang around for another hour - if I came back dilated to a four or more, they'd keep me. As I wasn't 39 weeks until the next day, there wasn't anything else they could do. We decided to head home and wait it out - the pain medications had made me extra sleepy - though we all thought I'd be back by the end of the night.
I went home and slept for several hours. When I woke up, I was discouraged that nothing had changed. I wasn't feeling a whole lot better, but I wasn't feeling worse. Maybe baby wasn't ready yet, though Lord knows I was.
The next morning, Saturday the 23rd, I woke up again surprised that "this thing" hadn't happened on it's own yet. I was in early labor yesterday - why did it stop? Was I really going to have to be induced after all?
Our induction was set for three pm, and we were told to call an hour before to make sure a room was still available. Our morning was long. I hate the waiting game.
We got everything ready, played with the kids, and met Nana and Papa for lunch at our little executive airport while watching the planes take off. When we got home and got Judah down for a nap, I heard Stephen call the hospital from the living room. It was a short conversation, and ended with "Ok, great. We'll see you soon." I peeked out of the bedroom the same time he stuck his head into the hallway... It was time!
I'll never forget the look on his face, or the feeling in my gut. Joy, terror, excitement, anxiety, fear, worry, happy, sad... How is it possible to feel so many emotions at once? And the amount of times you experience it doesn't alter the shock. Still, four kids in, the moment you know everything is about to change is still just as crazy as the first.
We made it to the hospital not too long after the phone call. We left Judah sleeping and Uriah and Ezra with my parents - "See you tomorrow!"
We made it to our room, with our busy and bustling nurse, around 3:30. For the first time in my pregnancies, I wasn't Strep B positive, so we weren't going to have to wait for the antibiotics to kick in. Everyone was in agreement, though: this baby was going to come fast, so our nurse worked to get everything ready to go before any steps were taken to officially start the induction.
Our doctor was the same from the previous day and I was happy she already knew our story and what I had been through. She checked and I was dilated to a 4, surprisingly little progress for what I had been feeling for almost 48 hours. We wanted to see if we could get things going on our own before starting Pitocin. Though the drug has worked well for me in the past, I was decently far along, having contractions, and we assumed as soon as we "got the ball rolling" he would come quickly, so I opted to try and jump start the process naturally, thinking we wouldn't need the extra push of medication.
After a quick exam, it was decided he was sunny-side up, which was deemed the excuse for some of the pain I had been experiencing, but also meant labor could be lengthened and more difficult. I was a little worried about him being ok, its ok to be born sunny-side up, right? And honestly, a lot worried about the pain, how much more can it hurt? We tried all sorts of positions on the bed and laps around the halls to get him to roll over and move down. I was having contractions all the while, but wasn't making any progress in dilation or descending.
Eventually, we started the Pitocin drip around 5:15.
From here on out, the timing and facts become a bit muddled. Not just because I'm writing this six months after the fact, but because nothing seemed to go according to plan (does it ever?) and no one was paying attention to the clock or writing things down.
I don't remember when I was checked, I think I was at a five, maybe a six, I remember being surprised and disappointed, and I also remember them telling me not to worry, I was making progress, and by comparison to others, though maybe not my previous labors, I was making progress and at a quick rate. But we were nearing the six o'clock hour and all our assumptions of another seven o'clock hour birth were starting to fade.
The epidural went in with much less drama than my most previous one, a happy change. And sometime after, around eight, they broke my water.
The contractions were starting to get more intense, and I was thankful for the epidural, though something wasn't quite right. As the pain started to intensify, there was one spot on my right side that didn't soften the blow like I felt elsewhere. It was as if the full force of the contraction was being concentrated to that one quarter size circle on my stomach and I couldn't think of anything except removing that pain.
Any position I felt comfortable in didn't last for long - my nurse, now a new and less busy one whom I grew to appreciate immensely, was always moving me around. Slowly, more and more people flooded the room. What is going on? The anesthesiologist came back in and attempted to fix my pain. I didn't like her at first but she seemed much softer now - she kept her hand on my shoulder and her eyes on the screens, tracking something with maternal worry. I was getting so confused. The pain was subsiding, but something wasn't right. No one was saying it but I could tell. It got harder to breathe and I got really hot. I felt an oxygen mask on my face and remember searching for Stephen with my eyes and feeble voice, hold me. He was there, his hand on mine, gripping the bedside along with me, his arm stuck through the nurses surrounding the bed and bustling about. I saw his face before he saw mine - he was watching the screens. He looked both like the doctor he is and the daddy he wanted to become. He looked scared. But when he found my eyes his expression changed and I knew he was fighting off anxiety to try and keep me calm. My nurse stroked my hair and wiped my tears.
"His heart rate is dropping, we can't seem to keep him happy for long."
"Let's try a new position."
"How far along is she?"
"I haven't checked in awhile, I'm afraid checking will cause more distress."
"He's not descending."
"We're going to back off the Pitocin."
Despite everyone's best efforts to remain calm, this wasn't going well and I knew it. And I was powerless to do anything about it. We couldn't keep his heart rate up for long and I was growing tired. My thoughts were muddled. Time was standing still yet escaped me completely. I was scared. I had so many questions but just didn't know where to begin, nor did I want to say them out loud - voicing them would make them real. Why is this happening? God, are you here? Is he ok? Is something really wrong? Am I going to be ok? God, where are you?
All at once it was time to push.
I remember feeling excited. Ready. I remember thinking he must be fine now, everything must be fine. I wasn't being wheeled off to an emergency room, they were letting me push. He must have descended safely, finally. Right? I remember Stephen's face - anxious, excited, but worried and firm. He wasn't happy, not yet. I remember feeling like it was going really well - I knew what I was doing and was aware of the process my body was taking me through. I have always enjoyed the euphoria of labor. I remember there were more nurses than I requested, and everyone was still watching the screens. My eyes closed. I remember the attending yelling at me. The room was full of women and it felt like such an empowering moment - she was urging me on in solidarity and excitement. Stephen's grip got tighter. It was such a mixed bag of emotions. My thoughts and feelings didn't seem to match those on the faces around me or the palpable fear in the room. God, please.
Once he cried, he didn't stop, and I have never loved a sound more. He was here. He was safe. He did it. I did it. We did it. I held him, convinced nothing could ever make me let him go. I smiled and laughed at his consistent cry, in delirious disbelief at the evening we had experienced. What had even happened?
But he was here. He was safe.
Born at 10:49 pm, well past our assumptions, he weighed 7 pounds, 9 ounces and was 18.75 inches long. He was perfect.
Our questions were eventually answered. The extreme pain I had been feeling the 48 hours leading up to his delivery was in fact early labor. The contractions were causing such intense and abnormal pain both because of my umbilical hernia and diastasis recti, and because of his sunny-side up position.
My contractions weren't dilating me past a 4, though, because they weren't strong enough to help him descend. They possibly never would have been on their own.
Amos was born with the umbilical cord wrapped around his ankles two times. It took the aid of Pitocin to, essentially, force him out.
Born bungee jumping.
Trying to descend against the taught umbilical cord was causing his heart rate to drop. Dramatically. The consistent beeping of the machines was letting us know his heart rate was in the 60s.
This was simultaneously causing my body stress, and though I don't remember it and wasn't aware in the moment, it appeared as if my life was just as much in the balance as Amos'.
My doctor was yelling at me, not from a place of excited empowerment but from desperation.
She was yelling as she was pulling.
Stephen's face was white and determined during the short three contractions it took for Amos to be born for good reason:
He was anticipating an emergency c-section.
He was contemplating the possibility of Amos not making it.
He was praying.
Amos means strong and brave, to be carried by God, and he lived up to those words that evening as we prepared to meet him face to face. I needed to be those things, too, for him.
But he was here. He was safe. That's all I knew.
We nursed. We snuggled. I sighed - oh the relief. We laughed. We baffled. It all just felt so. good. He was here. He was safe.
I didn't require any after care, so it seemed we were left alone to gaze in wonder rather quickly after his arrival. Those first 24 hours are magical, full of exhausted joy. My mom, who had been with us to take pictures, left us to be together. We slept. We smiled. My nurse who had combed back my hair and wiped my tears and offered her sweet and calming words was with us through the night and I was so grateful for her aid. While recovering from labor and beginning to breastfeed is far from glamorous, I remember that first night with rose colored glasses and it just feels so blissful.
He was here. He was safe. Thank you, God.
When I went in to be monitored, I was dilated to a 2. Baby was fine and the contractions weren't consistent, but they couldn't explain the pain. We waited for an hour, expecting the pain medications to kick in, but they never did. Now, I was dilated to a 3. Our doctor assumed I was in early labor, contractions manifesting themselves in an unusual (and extra uncomfortable) way. I have had four babies now and this is the first time labor had ever brought me to tears. We had the option to hang around for another hour - if I came back dilated to a four or more, they'd keep me. As I wasn't 39 weeks until the next day, there wasn't anything else they could do. We decided to head home and wait it out - the pain medications had made me extra sleepy - though we all thought I'd be back by the end of the night.
I went home and slept for several hours. When I woke up, I was discouraged that nothing had changed. I wasn't feeling a whole lot better, but I wasn't feeling worse. Maybe baby wasn't ready yet, though Lord knows I was.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
The next morning, Saturday the 23rd, I woke up again surprised that "this thing" hadn't happened on it's own yet. I was in early labor yesterday - why did it stop? Was I really going to have to be induced after all?
Our induction was set for three pm, and we were told to call an hour before to make sure a room was still available. Our morning was long. I hate the waiting game.
We got everything ready, played with the kids, and met Nana and Papa for lunch at our little executive airport while watching the planes take off. When we got home and got Judah down for a nap, I heard Stephen call the hospital from the living room. It was a short conversation, and ended with "Ok, great. We'll see you soon." I peeked out of the bedroom the same time he stuck his head into the hallway... It was time!
I'll never forget the look on his face, or the feeling in my gut. Joy, terror, excitement, anxiety, fear, worry, happy, sad... How is it possible to feel so many emotions at once? And the amount of times you experience it doesn't alter the shock. Still, four kids in, the moment you know everything is about to change is still just as crazy as the first.
We made it to the hospital not too long after the phone call. We left Judah sleeping and Uriah and Ezra with my parents - "See you tomorrow!"
We made it to our room, with our busy and bustling nurse, around 3:30. For the first time in my pregnancies, I wasn't Strep B positive, so we weren't going to have to wait for the antibiotics to kick in. Everyone was in agreement, though: this baby was going to come fast, so our nurse worked to get everything ready to go before any steps were taken to officially start the induction.
Our doctor was the same from the previous day and I was happy she already knew our story and what I had been through. She checked and I was dilated to a 4, surprisingly little progress for what I had been feeling for almost 48 hours. We wanted to see if we could get things going on our own before starting Pitocin. Though the drug has worked well for me in the past, I was decently far along, having contractions, and we assumed as soon as we "got the ball rolling" he would come quickly, so I opted to try and jump start the process naturally, thinking we wouldn't need the extra push of medication.
After a quick exam, it was decided he was sunny-side up, which was deemed the excuse for some of the pain I had been experiencing, but also meant labor could be lengthened and more difficult. I was a little worried about him being ok, its ok to be born sunny-side up, right? And honestly, a lot worried about the pain, how much more can it hurt? We tried all sorts of positions on the bed and laps around the halls to get him to roll over and move down. I was having contractions all the while, but wasn't making any progress in dilation or descending.
Eventually, we started the Pitocin drip around 5:15.
From here on out, the timing and facts become a bit muddled. Not just because I'm writing this six months after the fact, but because nothing seemed to go according to plan (does it ever?) and no one was paying attention to the clock or writing things down.
I don't remember when I was checked, I think I was at a five, maybe a six, I remember being surprised and disappointed, and I also remember them telling me not to worry, I was making progress, and by comparison to others, though maybe not my previous labors, I was making progress and at a quick rate. But we were nearing the six o'clock hour and all our assumptions of another seven o'clock hour birth were starting to fade.
The epidural went in with much less drama than my most previous one, a happy change. And sometime after, around eight, they broke my water.
The contractions were starting to get more intense, and I was thankful for the epidural, though something wasn't quite right. As the pain started to intensify, there was one spot on my right side that didn't soften the blow like I felt elsewhere. It was as if the full force of the contraction was being concentrated to that one quarter size circle on my stomach and I couldn't think of anything except removing that pain.
Any position I felt comfortable in didn't last for long - my nurse, now a new and less busy one whom I grew to appreciate immensely, was always moving me around. Slowly, more and more people flooded the room. What is going on? The anesthesiologist came back in and attempted to fix my pain. I didn't like her at first but she seemed much softer now - she kept her hand on my shoulder and her eyes on the screens, tracking something with maternal worry. I was getting so confused. The pain was subsiding, but something wasn't right. No one was saying it but I could tell. It got harder to breathe and I got really hot. I felt an oxygen mask on my face and remember searching for Stephen with my eyes and feeble voice, hold me. He was there, his hand on mine, gripping the bedside along with me, his arm stuck through the nurses surrounding the bed and bustling about. I saw his face before he saw mine - he was watching the screens. He looked both like the doctor he is and the daddy he wanted to become. He looked scared. But when he found my eyes his expression changed and I knew he was fighting off anxiety to try and keep me calm. My nurse stroked my hair and wiped my tears.
"His heart rate is dropping, we can't seem to keep him happy for long."
"Let's try a new position."
"How far along is she?"
"I haven't checked in awhile, I'm afraid checking will cause more distress."
"He's not descending."
"We're going to back off the Pitocin."
"I hear you whisper underneath your breath
I hear your SOS, your SOS
I will send out an army to find you
In the middle of the darkest night
It's true, I will rescue you"
Despite everyone's best efforts to remain calm, this wasn't going well and I knew it. And I was powerless to do anything about it. We couldn't keep his heart rate up for long and I was growing tired. My thoughts were muddled. Time was standing still yet escaped me completely. I was scared. I had so many questions but just didn't know where to begin, nor did I want to say them out loud - voicing them would make them real. Why is this happening? God, are you here? Is he ok? Is something really wrong? Am I going to be ok? God, where are you?
"I will never stop marching to reach you
In the middle of the hardest fight
It's true, I will rescue you"
I remember feeling excited. Ready. I remember thinking he must be fine now, everything must be fine. I wasn't being wheeled off to an emergency room, they were letting me push. He must have descended safely, finally. Right? I remember Stephen's face - anxious, excited, but worried and firm. He wasn't happy, not yet. I remember feeling like it was going really well - I knew what I was doing and was aware of the process my body was taking me through. I have always enjoyed the euphoria of labor. I remember there were more nurses than I requested, and everyone was still watching the screens. My eyes closed. I remember the attending yelling at me. The room was full of women and it felt like such an empowering moment - she was urging me on in solidarity and excitement. Stephen's grip got tighter. It was such a mixed bag of emotions. My thoughts and feelings didn't seem to match those on the faces around me or the palpable fear in the room. God, please.
"I hear the whisper underneath your breath
I hear you whisper, you have nothing left"
And there he was.
"I will send out an army to find you
In the middle of the darkest night
It's true, I will rescue you
I will never stop marching to reach you
In the middle of the hardest fight
It's true, I will rescue you"
Waiting for that first cry was torture. Time stood still. I felt Stephen holding his breath along with our son.
And then it came. And with it, the relief.
And then it came. And with it, the relief.
"Oh, I will rescue you"
Born at 10:49 pm, well past our assumptions, he weighed 7 pounds, 9 ounces and was 18.75 inches long. He was perfect.
Our questions were eventually answered. The extreme pain I had been feeling the 48 hours leading up to his delivery was in fact early labor. The contractions were causing such intense and abnormal pain both because of my umbilical hernia and diastasis recti, and because of his sunny-side up position.
My contractions weren't dilating me past a 4, though, because they weren't strong enough to help him descend. They possibly never would have been on their own.
Amos was born with the umbilical cord wrapped around his ankles two times. It took the aid of Pitocin to, essentially, force him out.
Born bungee jumping.
Trying to descend against the taught umbilical cord was causing his heart rate to drop. Dramatically. The consistent beeping of the machines was letting us know his heart rate was in the 60s.
This was simultaneously causing my body stress, and though I don't remember it and wasn't aware in the moment, it appeared as if my life was just as much in the balance as Amos'.
My doctor was yelling at me, not from a place of excited empowerment but from desperation.
She was yelling as she was pulling.
Stephen's face was white and determined during the short three contractions it took for Amos to be born for good reason:
He was anticipating an emergency c-section.
He was contemplating the possibility of Amos not making it.
He was praying.
Amos means strong and brave, to be carried by God, and he lived up to those words that evening as we prepared to meet him face to face. I needed to be those things, too, for him.
But he was here. He was safe. That's all I knew.
We nursed. We snuggled. I sighed - oh the relief. We laughed. We baffled. It all just felt so. good. He was here. He was safe.
I didn't require any after care, so it seemed we were left alone to gaze in wonder rather quickly after his arrival. Those first 24 hours are magical, full of exhausted joy. My mom, who had been with us to take pictures, left us to be together. We slept. We smiled. My nurse who had combed back my hair and wiped my tears and offered her sweet and calming words was with us through the night and I was so grateful for her aid. While recovering from labor and beginning to breastfeed is far from glamorous, I remember that first night with rose colored glasses and it just feels so blissful.
He was here. He was safe. Thank you, God.
