On May 3rd, the morning after my 31st birthday, my mucus plug fell out. The day that followed, the doctor checked my cervix for the first time and at 36 weeks pregnant I was two centimeters dilated. The next day,
at 9:40am, at the studio where I teach yoga, my water gushed. Not just broke, but dramatically, movie-style gushed. My students wished me well and I drove home to see what would happen next.
My doula told me that there might be drawbacks to going directly to the hospital before contractions intensified. Sometimes doctors grow impatient (especially with the many first-time mom's that commonly have 24-48 hour labors) and pressure women to take pitocin to make contractions happen faster. I had expressed a strong desire for a natural birth throughout my pregnancy, no drugs what-so-ever, and had a detailed birth plan. So at home, I took a shower, ate some food, my husband walked the dog (he had taken the day off from work to paint the upstairs hallway), and I did my best to tidy up a very dirty house.
My water kept randomly gushing and I started to feel light cramping. I felt nervous, anxious and excited.
At 10:45am, I decided to go to the hospital knowing that I could always leave if I felt I wasn't progressing fast enough.
It was on the 10-minute drive to the hospital that it became clear I had made the right choice to go. I had two contractions in the car, which meant I was suddenly within the range of where I should be to go to the hospital. In triage, contractions started to come every three minutes. After I was admitted, I couldn't walk to my room without doubling over in pain. When the doctor checked my cervix, I was four centimeters dilated.
I tried to unpack my hospital bag, thinking that in all my downtime I would enjoy some of the DVDs, books and music that I brought. But things escalated so quickly, I almost immediately found myself on the floor, on hands and knees, writhing and sighing heavily.
I instructed my husband to put on Neil Young's "Cowgirl in the Sand." This marks the point where things got a little hazy.
I was not mentally prepared for how intense labor would be. I had heard so many conflicting opinions about what a contraction feels like that I honestly didn't know what to expect from my own body. I was also under the impression that a contraction lasted approximately one minute with breaks in between contractions.
This was not my experience.
From 11:30am until 4:30pm, I would have three or four contractions in a row, followed by 30 seconds to a minute of peace to catch my breath and process the fact that I was still alive. I went from four centimeters to six in four hours and then jumped from six to ten in less than an hour. I screamed and wailed. Deep moans, primal, uncensored sounds and instinctual movement overtook my body.
Then the pushing began. With each contraction, I started to feel a natural urge to push. The doctor confirmed that I was fully dilated and she stayed with me for three hours while I slowly moved my baby down. My husband sat behind me in the bed and held me, encouraging me to keep going. My aunt and doula made sure I stayed hydrated with quick sips of water and apple juice. The nurse set up a mirror so I could see my progress. His tiny head became more visible with each contraction.
The burning I felt in the final pushes that brought my baby to the other side was both excruciating and sincerely welcomed. I knew I was finally close to finishing this marathon. I pushed his head out and in the same contraction barred down with all my might and with animalistic fiery pushed the rest of his body into this world. The feeling of fluids and flesh sliding out of me was such a strange and exhilarating relief.
At 7:21pm on Cinco de Mayo, after only nine hours of labor, my baby, Ridge Michael Morris, was immediately placed on my chest. Everything else faded away. It was the greatest moment of my life to hold in my arms the life that had lived inside of me for eight months.
We stayed skin-to-skin for an hour. My doctor stitched a tear. My husband kissed me furiously with great admiration and passion. The nurses fluttered around us. I counted Ridge's fingers and toes while he breast fed. I talked to him and cried with him.
I fell in love.
Throughout pregnancy, women are encouraged to rest and take it easy. On the final day, they are expected to do the most physically challenging thing they will ever do in their lives. It's a paradox.
Now, that part of the journey is suddenly over, much sooner and faster than I had ever anticipated. My baby shower hadn't even happened yet, and for the first few days of Ridge's life I was overcome with all that needed to be done.
A week later, I'm writing this story with Ridge sleeping peacefully on my lap. I can say with complete honesty that it was all worth it. I would even entertain the idea of doing it again. I loved being pregnant. I love that labor showed me what I am capable of and how strong I can be.
I don't care that I'm not getting any sleep or that I spend eight hours out of 24 breastfeeding, pumping, burping and diaper changing. When Ridge opens his brilliant blue eyes to explore his blurry new world, I am reminded that I have already learned so much from my time with him and I will continue to grow because of him.
In one week, my entire life has dramatically shifted for the better. I have overwhelming and abundant gratitude.
