(Re)Birth & springtime
This post is written by Dr. Liesel Jay, PT, DPT
Whatever your thoughts are on the passing of Easter, it signals nature’s rebirthing period; where warmer temperatures are finally more consistent, flowers and crops begin to sprout, and (farm) animals give birth.
Personally, I will never forget the significance of this season for so many people around the world, having experienced it myself while serving in the Peace Corps in Eastern Europe. Even more, Spring is celebrated as a signal to the broadening availability of fresh produce, especially for those who rely on frozen or preserved foods during the fall and winter months.
You may ask, what does this have to do with pelvic floor practices? Being the new provider in the clinic, I figured this is an opportunity to share more about myself and my experience in giving birth to my son - who is celebrating two years in April!
The Beginning
After four years of marriage, my husband and I felt that we were ready to start our own family. I had my IUD removed and we got pregnant shortly thereafter. Unfortunately, we miscarried and mourned that loss while simultaneously feeling trepidation in trying again. We did continue to try and I was fortunate to get pregnant just three months later. For all intents and purposes, the pregnancy was normal and our little boy was typically developing. At 41 weeks, I received a membrane sweep, and at the direction of our doula - had mixed castor oil into scrambled eggs immediately following the appointment. As I went to bed that night, our doula had prepared us that there was a high probability that labor would begin.
Let the Labor Begin
My goodness, the doula was right! At 10:35 p.m. I woke up feeling…things (contractions) I had never felt before. I made my way to the bathroom and felt the ceremonious “gush.” Convinced at this point that my water had just broken, I prepared for a sleepless night of contractions as I quickly went from zero, to experiencing contractions lasting one minute and occurring every four minutes. That evening, I felt that time was a construct that simply did not exist. It felt like an eternity, but it wasn’t long before I saw the sun rise and the contractions had slowed down to every ten to twenty minutes.
Before conducting another membrane sweep, the midwife checked to see if my water had broken. They concluded that it hadn’t and proceeded with the sweep and sent us back to labor at home. It was another sleepless night as contractions ramped up to the same frequency and duration as the night before. By the morning, contractions had once again slowed down. If there was ever a period of time where I felt the most vulnerable and out of control, it was then. I was upset with my body for not letting things progress, compounded by the frustration in not being able to rest and mentally or physically prepare for delivery.
My visit to the midwife group on the following day (day three) yielded results that I was 6 cm dilated and could finally be admitted to the hospital. It was music to our ears! Upon entering, the delivery room felt like the Four Seasons (we’ve never been). The exhaustion and emotional lability I was already experiencing led me to choosing a walking epidural. Receiving it felt heaven-sent, as I was finally able to rest.
Time for the Hospital
I have an immense amount of respect and admiration for those who have undergone a home birth. I can confidently say that the familiarity of your home can do wonders in avoiding prodromal labor or stalling. My husband and I decided on a hospital birth, however, and here we were. I felt that I could finally get some relief.
However, the relief was short-lived once we learned that I wasn’t progressing; in other words, I wasn’t dilating any further (not uncommon once an epidural has been introduced). After speaking with the midwife, we decided the best course of action was doing a full epidural at night to let me sleep, while receiving pitocin to help my cervix dilate. By 7:00 a.m. the next morning, the midwife said that I was 10 cm dilated, and that I could try pushing if I wanted to - and I did.
It Was Finally Time to Meet My Son!
My pushing lasted a full three hours. At this point, my education and experience served as a pro and con, providing insight into the process, but also forcing me to be hyper-aware of the impact to my body. Already having a history of hemorrhoids, the mere thought of it preoccupied my mind, preventing me from pushing as forcefully and efficiently as needed. I also knew that pushing with an “open glottis” vs “closed glottis” was more helpful in avoiding any tearing.
These two factors were swirling around in my head the entire time, which exacerbated my physical and mental fatigue. There is a definitive moment ingrained in my memory, when I knew exactly what the midwife was communicating to the nurse, with only a look of her eyes - that she felt enough time had passed, and that it was likely time to perform a c-section. The on-call OB/GYN entered our room to ask if everything was okay - her way of inquiring the same.
In hindsight, I was observing everyone in the room, anticipating their next move or decision. Frankly, I’m appreciative that the option wasn’t posed as an option, because I would have immediately obliged. While I have no fundamental concern whatsoever with having a c-section, I had spent a vast majority of my pregnancy envisioning it in a particular way - based on the information I already had and was receiving throughout the interactions with my doula and midwife. In those moments of analyzing the real-time reactions of the professionals helping me deliver, I felt them giving me the strength to mentally push the fear and hypotheticals aside, and to physically push - to deliver my son and introduce him to the world.
Baby Time
My son arrived after 10:30 a.m., all 8 lbs. 9 oz, 20.5 cm long and a whopping 14 cm head. I later learned that while in delivery, he was stuck behind my pubic bone for quite some time. Once I was able to get him past that threshold, everything else seemed to go swimmingly. With his exit, my immediate questions were, “Is he okay? What’s his APGAR? What’s the damage down there?” They were rapid fire questions and my midwife looked stunned. All was in order, she assured me. But my son had an ash-blue skin tone and hadn’t belted out the ceremonious cry just yet, which was when I began to slip in and out of consciousness. There was that, “time is a construct” feeling, as it floated to and from the delivery room and every other place I had been in order to get there.
When my placenta wasn’t coming, the midwife had to go fetch it. I was stitched up, my husband was living in post-labor bliss doing skin-to-skin with our son, and it was a picture-perfect moment. I was able to hold my son for the first time and try breastfeeding.
We had two full nights in the hospital, plenty of time for us to anxiously hope that we could go home. As it goes, our parenting journey really began.
Conclusion
This was really a cathartic experience for me to revisit and write this story. I view birth as sacred - and yet, I also view my experience as traumatic. It isn’t meant to instill fear or applause. Instead, I use my story every day when I treat pregnant and postpartum women, to provide better knowledge and potential outcomes, in hopes to better prepare them.
Our journeys are so different. For those of us who have uteruses and decide to have children, we can empower one another, provide wisdom, and in my case, empathy and care. It’s truly an honor to treat and hold space for all pregnant and postpartum people.
And to my little guy who added “momma” to my title, HAPPY BIRTHDAY lovebug!
