Ruby, in Her Own Time

My little family

I've wanted to tell Ruby's birth story since before she even had one. When I was pregnant, I imagined several different scenarios, but it always culminated in me being handed a screaming, squirming baby still slick with blood and fluid. In these various  fantasies I would be sweaty and exhausted, face red and hair disheveled but glowing with pride and excitement. I'd hold my new warm baby to my breast and breathe her in while Danny held us both, his eyes wet with tears of happiness. Sounds perfect doesn't it? Just like a movie.

It didn't happen that way, which is not necessarily a bad thing, but I'd be lying if I said I wouldn't change things if I could. The real story is a lot more than a birth story. In order to understand the whys and hows you have to go much further back than the day I went into labor. It's a story mostly about me, but also about relationships and heartache. This story is my truth, exclusive to me: my feelings, my memories. So let me start at the beginning: the day I found out that I was going to have a baby.

Thinking back, I couldn't even tell you the date. It was August, I know that. At the time, two close friends and a cousin were all due within a week of each other, so it was like baby-palooza around here.
I told Danny, four cousins I'm close with, and my two best friends on the day those two blue lines appeared. We decided not to share the news with anyone else until my first doctor's appointment. This was a great excuse for me, because I didn't want to tell my parents. Crazy, right? By this time Danny and I had been married for three years, both graduated from college, had good jobs, and had bought a home with plenty of room for a kid or two.
I didn't want to tell my parents, though.
I just didn't want to.
It wouldn't be how I had always imagined it.
I didn't want to tell my parents.

My mom and dad split up shortly before I found out I was pregnant. I'm not going to go into all that, but at the time I wasn't speaking to my mom and I was worried about my dad. The thought of telling either of them made me nauseated, more so than any morning sickness. I hadn't spoken to my mom in a month and my dad was making me crazy. Finally though, the time came to tell them. I called my mom first. I specifically remember driving down I-10 and telling my mom, who was so excited and so happy and so much herself that all the tension I had stored up just melted away.
Okay. One down, and it went well.
I decided to tell my dad in person, I thought he needed that. I was on a break from work the next day and he'd stopped by, so as we sat outside on the patio I told him he was going to be a pawpaw. His reaction was not at all what I expected. He turned inward and his only response was that he didn't know what the baby would call him, since he didn't want to use the name my mom had always suggested.
I was deeply disappointed and angry, too. I felt I had handed him one bright spot in all this shit we were slogging through and he still found a way to make it about himself. It wouldn't be the last time.

The first four months of pregnancy, I cried myself to sleep every night. Every single night. I would lie in bed and my thoughts would spiral out of control. How would my parents be grandparents separately? My child would never know them as I had: together. A unit, a couple, husband and wife. My family was broken. Split. My heart could not hold all that hurt in so I just cried. A lot. Danny was amazing through all of my sorrow and fear and stress. He listened, and held me close, and let me cry. He didn't have the answers, but he didn't insist I stop asking the same questions every night. He was (and is) my greatest comfort and lent me his strength during all my months of weakness. He's an amazing guy.

As the months went by, my relationship with my mom went back to normal, or at least as normal as could be expected given the circumstances. My relationship with my dad, not so much. The fact is that while I love my dad and have generally enjoyed his company, we've never been close in the same way I am with my mom. We tend to clash a bit, and my mom was always the buffer. Without her making excuses for him, though, I found maintaining contact with my dad was a strain. Basically, he stressed me out. Maybe if I hadn't been pregnant I could have processed the stress differently, but interacting with my dad always left my nerves jangling. I felt on edge around him because he had become impetuous and unpredictable.
Aside from all this I was working at the same job I'd had for the last six years, and I was over it. I was on my feet most of the day, and many aspects of my job required a lot of manual labor that I was solely responsible for. Between stress at work and stress from my family drama, it's amazing I had such a model pregnancy. I was fortunate that while I did have nausea and all the regular fun pregnancy symptoms, I had no health problems. I didn't gain much and didn't swell anywhere. I like to think God decided to give me a break since I had so much else to deal with.

I left my job in early March, and had a month to get "ready" for my perfect labor and birth. I hired a doula (she's a wonderful lady) and read birth blogs and midwife tales and anything by Ina May Gaskin I could find. I watched birth documentaries. I was READY.
Ha!

41 weeks and 3 days

My due date was April 11th, which was also my four year wedding anniversary. Three days prior I had gone on my in-laws annual Easter walk. It's about three miles and I was certain this would kick-start labor.
 Nope.
Another week went by with no signs of impending labor. When I was a full ten days past my due date, I started getting nervous. My dad had a week long work trip scheduled, and told me I needed to have the baby before he left. While I knew he wasn't trying to be mean, it deeply upset me. I was being asked EVERY day when I was going to have this baby, and I was determined to go into labor naturally.  I was still pregnant when he left on his trip, and though I felt bad that he was going to miss the birth of his first grandchild, I was also secretly relieved. I had been agonizing for weeks over what it would be like with my estranged parents in a small hospital room together. The thought kept me awake at night and I worried over it endlessly, despite trying my best not to think about it. Now though, that was at least one less thing to think about.
In the last days of pregnancy, I did everything I could to help my body go into labor. I walked and walked, I ate an entire pineapple, I had sexy times (though by this point I was roughly the size of a manatee and not very bendy). I did squats. If there was an old wives' tale, I did what it said. Nothing worked. By April 23rd, I was desperate. I did NOT want a chemical induction. I asked my doctor if we could try sweeping my membranes and she agreed to give it a shot. At 10 AM on April 24th, my doctor swept my membranes (holy cow, not fun) and told me if I hadn't started labor by 9 the next morning, we were going to have to get it going by other means. Fortunately, I started having mild cramps by 11 AM and they continued growing in strength over the day. Early that afternoon I lost my mucus plug and would have danced if I hadn't been the size of a rhinoceros. I drank a shake with castor oil in it, and I won't go into detail, but I will  never do that again. Around 7:00 that evening my mom and younger brothers stopped by while I was walking laps in my house. I knew I was definitely in early labor by then because it only took about ten minutes before I wanted to knock my brothers' heads together. They left shortly after, and I continued pacing. My doula arrived around 10:00, and by then I was resting my weight on an exercise ball. My contractions were now at regular intervals, and Danny was timing them. They weren't anything to be excited about yet, though. They were steady and growing in intensity, but still early labor pains. The next nine or so hours are a blur. I know Danny and I went for a walk at one point, and I think I cried during it. I vomited a few times, I got in the tub for a while, bounced on the exercise ball, and eventually lay down to try and get some sleep. By 7 AM of the 25th, I was ready to go to the hospital and see where we were at. I was still having regular contractions, or waves, to the point where I couldn't really talk during during the peak of one. We arrived at the hospital, got all set up in our room and waited to have my doctor check my progress. My mom came by and braided my hair for me.

The room was FREEZING, hence the socks on my arms.

Finally, my doctor came to check me. I wasn't dilated at all. When I heard this, I panicked. I doubt anyone could tell from the outside: I was having contractions and having to breathe and attempting to relax during them. Internally, however, I was flipping out. My biggest fear was having a c-section. I was convinced that if I had to have a c-section, I would die. I know it's irrational, but it's how I really felt. I had no reason to feel this way, as my mother had three c-sections. I was the only baby she was able to have vaginally, and she had not dilated until given pitocin (after laboring for two days, eight days past her due date). Throughout my pregnancy I told myself that if I wanted it badly enough and put my mind to it, I could make myself dilate. If I stayed positive and didn't let others discourage me, it would be fine. I was wrong. There's more to it than mind over matter, and the best laid plans, well...

Some time later my doctor came by to check me again and still nothing. I wasn't even to 2cm. A "wiggly" one, she called it. I knew if she broke my water, I would most likely end up with a pitocin drip and an epidural, but by then my internal resolve was already wavering. Forty-two weeks is a long damn time to be pregnant, and all my fears had crept up my throat and I just could not swallow them down anymore. My doctor broke my water, and labor really got intense. With each contraction, I felt as if I were wearing pain that was saddle-shaped. It would start deep in my belly and pelvis and radiate upward and around me.

My doula, Maw Maw Faith, talking me through a contraction

 From that point on I had very little concept of time. I had to concentrate during each wave, and the only reason I managed to do that was because my doula was there talking me through each one. At some point, they started me on pitocin, and that's when things got hairy. I couldn't tell you how long I labored without any pain meds. I think at one point they gave me something, but I can't actually remember. I don't know how long I hung in there before I was begging for that epidural I had sworn I wouldn't get. I know I only lasted as long as I did because my doula rocked. It could have been hours, or only a few minutes. I remember at one point, as a contraction was building, I looked at Danny and begged him to please punch me in the face and knock me out. I was serious.

A very tense Danny

 After twelve eternities, I got my epidural. I can't repeat the language I used as it was happening, but the guy shoving a huge needle in my back asked me if I kissed my mother with that mouth. I'm pretty sure I apologized to everyone I've ever met once it kicked in. I labored painlessly for a few more hours, and at about 4:30 my doctor returned to check me. Still nothing. I knew what she was going to tell me before she said it, and I could tell from her face she felt sad that my ideal birth dreams were about to shatter. I wasn't going to dilate. I was fully effaced, but my cervix was tightly closed. The baby's heart rate had started getting a little erratic, and it was time to get her out. I was having a c-section. My worst effing nightmare. I felt devastated, truly and overwhelmingly devastated. I was so sad and blindingly terrified. I cried. My own little bereavement for the fantasy labor and birth that wasn't going to happen. Danny was right there, and he cried for me a little, too. I think he was the only one that really understood what was happening in my head and my heart.  There wasn't much time to grieve, though. Instantly I was wheeled to be prepped for surgery, my mom and Danny dressed in scrubs. As I lay on that bed, my arms held out perpendicular from my body, I felt like I was at my own creepy, clinical crucifixion. The only comfort I felt was Danny, his hand on my hair, staring into my face and telling me it would be fine, we'd have our Ruby soon, and I was doing so great. He was so proud of me. He really is an amazing man.

Danny reassuring a very terrified Morgan

 My doctor told me she was going to test to make sure I was ready. The next thing I heard was "that's weird" and I almost had a heart attack before I realized they were talking about the Pandora station that was playing and not my uterus. The next words that made any sense to me were, "I see a lot of hair" and I was astounded that it was happening so fast. I threw up, strapped to that operating table, my gut cut open. Then, a sound. A cry. That cry I had waited and waited for. I was looking up into Danny's face as he stared back into mine. His eyes were wide and sparkling with unshed tears as he gasped out, "She's so beautiful!" but he was still looking at me.

Here she is

They held her up and she was so little. A perfect, naked, crying little person. She had so much hair and it was black as coal. As a nurse took Ruby to check her out I could feel Danny, restless, next to me. He wasn't going to leave me, but he wanted to see his daughter. I told him to go see her, and he was gone in a flash.

As my doctor(s) were putting me back together, my shoulders started aching and I felt like I couldn't breathe. Apparently this is normal when people are sewing your guts together, but it was vastly unpleasant. I was given something for the pain, and the next thing I can remember clearly is holding my little burrito of a baby, my three brothers standing around my bed, beaming. When I really looked at her, I was surprised and pleased to see her pretty, dark coloring and black hair. I had expected a pink, blonde baby like myself and two of my brothers had been, but Ruby was (and is) her daddy in miniature. The rest of that evening passed in a blur of ecstatic voices and grinning faces and congratulations. I remember my cousins laughing, excited. My in-laws insisting Ruby looked just like me, while my family were convinced she looked exactly like Danny. I was on really good drugs by then, but I would have felt happy anyway. I had my Ruby, small and precious and perfect. The baby I had was nothing like the one I had imagined so many times, but infinitely better.

Proud new uncles

Excited cousins

First snuggles

There are only a couple more things to tell, and they are things that I've realized only because I've had almost two years to think back and look at everything with a different perspective. I now know why I was so adamant about having a natural birth, and why I was so heartbroken when I didn't. Had you asked me at the time, I would have said that it was better for the baby and me, that I would heal faster, that we would bond more quickly. Those things are true, but it was more than just that.  Now I understand that I had tangled up all kinds of emotions and expectations in this desire for a natural labor and birth. Two things in particular were at the center of this knot. The first was that I felt that this was a gift I could give my daughter. It would be difficult, exhausting, and painful but so worth it. She was worth it. Her birth would be our first "together" and somehow set a tone for our entire relationship. It made sense to me at the time, and it sort of still does. The second thing (the thought that I think started the whole tangle) was this feeling that going through labor and birth and experiencing something so timeless and primal was going to somehow knit my broken heart back together. If I could deal with all that physical pain and see it through, it meant I was strong.  Strong enough to heal emotionally from the brokenness that was my family. Somehow, this birth would clean me out and make me new.  On the other side of it, I would have my own little family and I wouldn't be so dependent on the old one. It doesn't make sense. It never made sense. I can only now even see what was going on in my head, after having two years to untangle all those threads and get to what I had tied up in the center.

There's a saying I've heard many times about paths and destinations. Something to the effect of  "It's not where you end up that matters, it's how you got there." This saying doesn't apply here. For me, it's the opposite. It doesn't matter how I got my Ruby, and it never actually did. The journey was not what I pictured or wanted, but the outcome was the same. I have my Ruby, and how she got here hasn't changed how much I adore her. I love her with more ferocity than I ever thought I had a capacity for. I love Danny more because of her. She's such a treasure, and she's here. She's here now, and that's all that ever really mattered.