She’ll be 3 months and one week old tomorrow. As I look back at the photos of Sophia’s birth, and see our timid postures, I wonder why they ever trusted us with this innocent and fragile little girl. We look … happy… I guess. And tired and totally uncomfortable.
Near the end of our 38.5 hours of labor, after two applications of hormones to my cervix, after a 10-minute long contraction (the pain from which made my body shiver and my teeth chatter), after water breaking at home in bed and then all over the bathroom floor, after an epidural and an IV put in twice, after throwing up at least four times, after having all kinds of tubes and monitors and wires put up into me by various different doctors (one fetal heart rate monitor actually gets screwed shallowly into the baby’s head, and if it’s done poorly the first time, a different OB will come in and take the first one out and screw in a second one), after losing track of her heart rate, and finally, after learning how it felt to push successfully (much like pooping), Sophia’s head was out. I had been hearing the cries of other newborns for almost 24 hours in the delivery wing of BC Women’s Hospital. Each new set of cries signaled miracle and life and hope. I had been longing to hear the sound that meant that she was out, and that her lungs were okay. I think I didn’t really believe that I had a person inside of me, and I wanted that proof. Between contractions I had asked Thea, our midwife, if Sophia would be able to make any sound when just her head was out. Nope – she can’t make sounds until the fluid in her lungs is squeezed out, as happens in the process of a vaginal delivery.
They’d set up a mirror on a stand, with a bright light, so that I could watch our progress. I’d been looking at the wet, wrinkled, white top of Sophia’s head for what felt like hours. I had even reached down and touched it. But it felt so foreign, so unlike a soft baby – more like an internal organ. And for a long time, it didn’t seem like it was even moving. It would come out a bit and then get sucked back in. But Thea, the nurse, and Ben were all assuring me that I was doing a wonderful job of pushing. I kept pushing and catching my breath and looking in that mirror. Eventually, I ran out of tolerance for the pain. I took that as encouragement. After I saw blood in the mirror, I stopped looking. I just focused everything on pushing.
To be continued… Ben just set the table with black bean soup for lunch (we’ve been saving by having soup everyday except Sundays).
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