The birth of our first baby
By: Amanda Natividad
Tags: Birth, Labor, Pregnancy

In one of the triage rooms at UCSF Children’s Hospital, there’s a crack just above the door frame. Or maybe it’s a hole where something once hung. I can’t remember even though that was where my eyes focused for about four hours.

At around 7pm, after 15 hours of early labor, we jumped out of the Uber and walked up to the front desk where I let out a long animalistic scream when the administrator asked to verify my home address for insurance purposes. We were ushered into triage where a well-meaning nurse shoved a small juice box into my husband’s hands who then dotingly held up the straw to my mouth. We had just gotten to the hospital and already, I was done with my birth plan. Get me the epidural. Now. After a few minutes, this turned into the more urgent, I know my birth plan says otherwise. But we need to deviate. Get me the nitrous oxide. Get me the narcotics. Just. Get me. Something.

A doctor finally came in. Seven centimeters dilated! And the baby is face up, so it’s putting additional pressure on your spine! That sucks. Get me the epidural. Is our room ready? I dreamed of our tour two months prior. A Japanese garden for moms-to-be in labor to pace around and record their Instagram stories. In each room, flat screen TVs and hot tubs that could easily hold four adults. Where’s my water therapy and warm bath? The room isn’t ready. We’re full, they said. The anesthesiologist is in the operating room for a C-section. You’re in too much pain for the nitrous oxide to be useful. But you can have one more juice box. Another contraction came and I was sure my tailbone would shatter. I begged my husband to push down harder on my sacrum, my lower back near my tailbone. Feeling nothing, I was annoyed that he wasn’t even trying. He later had aching hands and joints but he was wise enough not to complain.

Around 11pm, the nurse came back and announced we were moving. It’s just down the hallway, she said. She walked ahead, pulling along my IV bag that was on casters. Husband pulled along our suitcases as I leaned into walls at each contraction. My IV tubes started to straighten up and tighten. Wait. You’re walking too fast.

Epidurals are magic

Our room was still being cleaned when we came in. The floors are going to get dirty anyway but you can stay. Don’t mind us. Where’s my epidural? A resident came in a few minutes later and took down my insurance information again. I already did this when we checked in. Don’t you guys talk to each other? Ma’am, this is protocol. I seethed. She described to me what an epidural is. Don’t you think I did at least some homework on this? What kind of goddamn moron do you think I am? Get me. The fucking. Epidural. Ma’am, legally I need to review these materials with you and it’s going to take some time. Realizing I was only prolonging my torture, I raised my hand in submission.

Epidural now? We’re just waiting for the attending. The attending talked the resident through the procedure. Local anesthetic first. Hey, can you guys hurry up? I’ve waited four fucking hours for this. Ma’am, this is not an emergency procedure. We need you to be patient so that we can do this correctly. I gritted my teeth. Another contraction came before the needle went in but I was so deep in pain, I stared ahead vaguely at my husband or the couch or the window with eyes unfocused. Convinced I would die of pain before the epidural would take effect.

It was done. The nurse gently smoothed the tape on my back to hold the epidural tube in place, and helped me into a lying position. Y’all know you owe me extra juice here. Crank it up. The resident stared at me wide-eyed (surely I was not her first epidural?). Our nurse quipped, “She’s right. You kept her waiting.” Oh, she was a nice person after all.

It was more or less immediate relief. I started to feel like my old self. I may have even joked. Did you all hear about that crazy pregnant lady cursing out the hospital staff? Man, I hope we never see her again. Husband snuck me a few bites of a protein bar and he finally got his own juice box to drink. A midwife came in a few minutes later, offering to break my water with a knitting needle so I could start pushing. The look on her face, you’d think she was offering to pour us a glass of wine. I was emboldened by the rage of active labor and waiting. I was eloquent by the grace of the epidural. I have been in labor for 20 hours now, four of which was active back labor with zero pain management. My epidural has just started to kick in, so no. I will not push right now. You will let me sleep and you can come back in the morning.

I don’t know how we managed to sleep, but suddenly seven hours later, a different midwife beginning a new shift came into the room. She soothed, you and the baby are doing great. The baby was face-up last night, but now they are face-down which means they’re in the optimal position. Your water hasn’t broken yet, but once you’re ready, we can help you with that. And then you can start pushing. It’s going to be a wonderful day, mama.

I smiled at my husband. It really was going to be the best day. We were going to — literally — have a baby.

The workout of my life

9am and it was go time. I lay on my right side and pushed. Husband held a giant jug of water and gave me a sip. On my left side, and pushed. On my stomach, gripping the edge of the bed as tightly as I could. More water. On my back, ankles tangled in sheets tied to a bar, bearing the weight of my hips in the air. It was the workout of my life and my confidence soared. All throughout pregnancy, I walked about 10,000 steps a day, at least five days a week. I regularly went to the gym. I did 100 squats per day. I even did a boxing workout class (and held my own!) late in my second trimester. I was strong as hell and my ass measured 37 inches. Nothing was going to stop me.

But the midwife frowned at the heart monitor. She looked at baby’s and my vitals. She checked the baby’s position. Something wasn’t adding up. I pushed again. The 25-year-old male intern who had shyly looked away from my hospital gown was now bracing my knee, staring up at the ceiling for my modesty. The midwife conferred with a doctor. They came back, standing at the edge of my bed, calmly informing me that for whatever reason, the baby stopped moving down my pelvis. We don’t know why, and we’re not too worried about the baby’s health. But baby’s heart rate briefly drops slightly at the end of each contraction. You’ve been pushing for three-and-a-half hours, which is a long time. While we support whatever decision you make, we may end up recommending a C-section. We’re really sorry because we know this isn’t what you wanted.

I gulped. I looked at my husband. We nodded at each other. I just want to try a little longer. Can we try three more positions and then call it a day? That sounds reasonable, the midwife and doctor smiled.

Another nurse asked if we had a good gym playlist. Upbeat music. My husband brought out the speaker. We can do this! We just about cheered. Music blasting, I stood up on the bed, held the bar, and got into one of the squats I dutifully practiced for nine months. Push push push. You. Can. Do. This. I gritted my teeth, scrunched my face, and screamed at the ceiling. My husband won’t confirm this, but a small poop may have plopped out.

Plan B (No, not that Plan B)

Yeah, I’m gonna need that C-section. About 10 medical professionals immediately burst through the door. They unplugged machines, threw a pair of scrubs and mask at my husband, barked calls and responses to each other. Take this shot of medicine, someone said. Sorry about the weird taste; you’ll find it sweet and salty. I downed it. Salty grape. What a sophisticated flavor, I cooed. I was relieved. We really were going to have a baby.

But when the hospital bed pushed the doors open, the hallway was silent. The on-staff nurses gazed at me with pity as my bed rolled past. Why do they look so sad? I wondered and immediately burst into tears. I was about to be cut open and I was scared. This isn’t fair. I worked out. My hips are wide. I ate all my vegetables, I drank glasses of milk, and I never once forgot my prenatal vitamins and DHA supplement. 800 mcg folic acid in my vitamin, beginning two weeks prior to becoming pregnant. Like my easy pregnancy, I was supposed to be one of those freaks of nature who only pushes for 30 minutes and recalls the incident as “not that bad.”

The entire operating room was bright. It wasn’t the dark room with bright spotlight over a metal table that I pictured. We’ll need a couple of you guys to move her onto the operating table, someone said. For me, it was the last moment of control. No. I can move myself. The staff exchanged glances. My midwife stood just outside the circle, “She’s really strong.” She doesn’t know it, but I gave her a mental high five.

In this moment, I imagined my strong core and arms pushing myself up into sitting position, mermaid-esque. My long, flowing shiny hair falling gracefully around my shoulders. My shapely legs and perfectly pedicured feet moving over onto the neighboring table. Later, when I recall this, I know the real image: sweaty hair in a clumpy ponytail. A poorly tied hospital gown revealing a beached whale of a woman roaring upward and then slapping down onto the table. Ten chubby blue-tipped toes pointing in the general direction of the ceiling.

A solid 10

We were able to stick to a few items in my birth plan. The curtain dividing my human body and my cadaver portion lowered slightly. Dad, is it a boy or a girl? The doctors and nurses asked. What is it? Is it ok? It took my husband either 10 seconds or 30 minutes to finally respond. It’s a boy! He joined the doctors as they clamped our baby’s cord and assessed his Apgar score: 10 out of 10.

And suddenly he was on my chest. Our beautiful, perfect son. Beautiful because he was pink from crying and plump from all the IV fluids that were pumped into me. Perfect because he was ours. I smelled his baby smell and I marveled at how small and lightweight he was. After a few minutes, anxiety from the situation, the hormones, and the drugs started setting in. Husband took the baby in the next room, and the doctors and nurses finished sewing me up. I started to chill, then shiver, then shake. I had the sudden fear that the epidural would wear off and I’d experience the full force of being ripped open. Is this shaking normal? I asked out loud. A doctor put a blanket on me and assured me all of this was normal. Maybe I fell asleep.

I was conscious again sometime later in a recovery room. I woozily stuck my breast in our baby’s mouth and he sucked with gusto. Husband and I gazed adoringly at him, overcome with the level of responsibility we now had and yet unaware of all the mechanics associated with it. I wasn’t yet in pain; the chills and shivering were gone and replaced with a foggy, inflated sense of self-worth.

Later that night, I would gingerly sit up in the hospital bed while a nurse gaped at the blood pooling around me. I would go back to the operating room for a D&C to remove a piece of placenta still stuck in my uterus. A few days later, our baby will have lost 10% of his body weight as a result of an incorrect breastfeeding latch, and the next few weeks would be filled with doctor’s and lactation consultants’ appointments across San Francisco as we monitored our baby’s bilirubin levels and weight. We would all go home on day five, and panic would fill the apartment as our baby screamed for milk, while we thought he just needed to be rocked to sleep. I would breathe a sigh of relief about a month later when the baby finally gains back his birth weight. And I would finally start to regain a sense of self when I decide to stop breastfeeding a few months later.

I thought our first family picture — I in my pink kimono and baby in his tight swaddle — would be the hallmark of my post-birth bliss. But it was in that semi-private recovery room, all of us unshowered and disheveled, and my incorrectly breastfeeding our happy baby, that I felt for the first time with unequivocal confidence, that I was exactly where and who I wanted to be.