The Birthing of Toby

Or, what happens when the eleven-days-past-due-date coincide with the two-weeks-of-Christmas-goodies gluttony.

Monday, January 6, 5:15am. Eleven days past due date. I wake up to go to the bathroom like I do every morning about this time, only this time, when I lay back down, it finally happens: a contraction. Now, I've been having contractions on and off for about three days, but not of the sort that gets anyone excited about labor actually starting any time soon. Fact is, I've almost reached the point where I seriously doubt I will ever give birth to this baby.

But the contractions continue, and they actually hurt a little!, and within an hour they've moved from 10 minutes apart to 4-5 minutes apart. Progress! Hooray! The necessary people are called (Grace, my midwife, and Melanie, her assistant, to start over, and Isaac's mom, to come get the three older boys), the birth tub is filled, the boys' bags are packed for a night at Oma's. Already things aren't going quite as smoothly as one might like: I'm progressing quickly and having trouble standing to take clothes out of the boys' closet, and Oma's garage door is frozen shut. Isaac alternates between feeding them breakfast and running upstairs to hold my hands through contractions. Finally everyone is where they need to be, and it really seems like my days of "false labor" have paved the way for a relatively quick delivery.

Not too unhappy at the very beginning.

He's the best.

I've done this three times now, without drugs each time, but even still I've never encountered the sensations I did that morning, the wild feeling of an enormous head descending through my body. It was crazy. I talked to him (and myself) through most contractions, encouraging both of us that this was, indeed, the only way out: down, down, down. Bring your big fat self right on through, child. [The ultrasound last week measured him at 7 pounds, 14 ounces, but with the understanding that it could be off up to a pound and 2 ounces. So we were guessing 9 pounds at least, and that was before another whole week of finishing off Christmas candies.]

But this fourth boy of mine, the one who opted not to arrive for ten full days, the one who has hated having his heartbeat checked for months and required a seriously-intense hip massage to end up facing the right way, he gave up. Or my body gave up. Or something. Whatever the case was, right about when I was thinking (and Grace was counseling), "if I could just push a little harder, he'd probably be here soon," the contractions all but ceased. Suddenly we were in a very similar situation to Silas's: baby's not dropping, but the heart rate is going dangerously low during contractions, we're going to have to transport you.

Seriously? This again? Another home birth with paramedics in my room? Only this time, the miracle didn't happen (immediately). I was in so much pain -- way more than the three previous births, unless we women really do forget these things between babies -- I didn't even care. Take me to the hospital, give me drugs, slice me open. Whatever. Just get this baby OUT.

[Not-quite-funny side note: we left Isaac's car in the driveway the night before, in case our very steep driveway was too icy to navigate without shoveling and/or salt and we needed to leave in a hurry. But the temperatures dropped so low that his battery died! Probably for the best, since the ambulance definitely got us to the hospital quicker.]

[Shout-out side note: my husband did an amazing job of gathering things we'd need at the hospital in record time. On a regular basis, I count on him for his thorough deliberation, his thoughtful decision-making. I'm so grateful to know that in a crisis, I can count on him to be a quick-moving, decisive, level-headed rock of a man.]

Not surprisingly, getting out of the tub, getting dressed (or, I should say, Melanie getting me dressed), getting down the stairs, getting into the ambulance -- all while trying to maintain the leaning-forward position that the baby fared the best in -- was sort of a nightmare. But, as it turns out, not impossible, either. We flew through the chilly streets, me on hands and knees on the stretcher (getting the worst backache of my life in such a bizarre position), Grace next to me constantly monitoring the baby's heartbeat, Isaac at my head holding tight to my hands.

Contractions had picked up again by this point, and the urge to push was threatening to overtake, though I knew I was only at 8cm. It wasn't until now that real fear set in: Grace kept saying how the baby's heartbeat nearly disappeared whenever I pushed, but I couldn't stop myself from pushing, and I grew increasingly convinced that I was killing my baby simply by having him. Had I been able to speak at all, I would have screamed for someone to just cut him out already, but I felt frozen. It was terrifying.

We arrived in the labor and delivery room, I hurled myself out of the stretcher and onto the bed, finally got permission to lie on my side instead of on my knees . . . and had a baby. No, really. It was less than seven minutes after I entered the room, only four minutes after they got the monitor up and running. That giant baby of mine, all jostled from the bumpy ambulance ride, brought his 37-cm head AND hand up by his cheek AND cord wrapped around his neck (just once, and not too tight) straight through my pelvis and into the world. The resident and Grace are both "yelling" at me, "hold on! hold on! not so fast!" and I'm hollering my head off, wondering in some tiny functioning corner of my brain if the kid even has a heartbeat anymore, and then he's screaming in the bassinet on the other side of the room (immediate cord cut, due to the wrap) and Isaac and I are staring at each other in shock and just like that we have a newborn.

A big, healthy boy with an enormous head [I said that already, didn't I], face bruised from turning the wrong way at the wrong moment, startlingly blue from the pinched cord but very, very soon to pink right up. I burst into tears, something I've never done after labor before, as the events of the past hour suddenly came to a crushing halt. I'm not even sure, at this point, that I could name all of the emotions I was feeling at that moment. (Not the least among them, I assure you, was irritation, as the resident stitched up my second-degree tear. I hate that part. So much for the benefits of my planned water birth.)

Finally a baby in my arms.

Proud daddy.

So here we are at the hospital. It's not as bad as I remembered; since Owen was born three years ago, they've apparently gotten nicer about not waking up patients all night long to check silly things. All the same, I really, really wish we were at home -- at home with my chocolate milk and my herb bath and the chance to see my children occasionally. (Somehow Levi never got his flu shot this season, so they can't visit.)

There is so much to be grateful for. A daytime labor and delivery, so that the whole watching world was able to pray. Two godly midwives trusting God's provision in scary circumstances. Another natural childbirth (despite my crazed thoughts about wanting a c-section). A mother-in-law available to take my children at a moment's notice (and my own parents, eagerly anticipating the chance to come themselves). A diligent husband meeting my every need and still managing to complete some time-sensitive tasks for work from his "bed" in the hospital room. Skype, for saying goodnight to my first three sons and showing them their new baby brother.

But most of all, for this precious new life, spared in God's mercy. A wild entrance to the world, to be sure, but with the sweetest, happiest of endings to the story.

Christian Tobias

January 6, 2014, 1:19pm

9lbs, 12oz -- 21.5in