I’m sitting happily on the couch with the gentle doobie
doobie doo of the bouncer seat singing next to me, occasionally glancing
down at a tiny, chubby, perfect, little body, and my heart swells.
Leonie (lee-OH-nee) Michaela (mi-KAY-luh) Colvin joined us
on the outside Sunday, May 24th at 5:55 am. This is her story.
The story begins quite a bit before Leonie’s actual birth.
On Wednesday May 13th, I had woken for my standard 2:30 am pee and
noticed quite a bit of bleeding. I wasn’t sure whether this was in the realm of
normal, but decided to go back to bed anyway. As I got myself situated again, I
felt a small gush and my eyes opened wide. Ummm. Did my water just break? My
frantic google search about third trimester bleeding and water breaking did
nothing but confuse and agitate me so I went ahead and woke Jeremy and we
decided to call on it. Given my description of quantities and colors and all
such things, the midwife didn’t seem to be too concerned but told me to call
again in the morning. Jeremy and I caught a few more winks and called later in
the morning at which point we talked to a different midwife who did want to
check things out, so we made arrangements with a friend to go in with me to the
hospital so Jeremy could stay with Bronwyn.
The hospital visit confirmed that my water was still in
tact, which I was thankful for, but it also revealed that I was 4 cm dilated!
Really? A free 4 cm? Didn’t I almost die getting that far with Bronwyn? Merry
Christmas to me! The midwife snapped off her gloves, squeezed my knee and said,
we’ll see you back here this weekend.
Well hallelujah.
We canceled our plans to travel to Boston for a wedding and
to visit friends. Sad, but realistic considering our circumstances – and we commenced
the waiting.
Oh the waiting.
Dear practitioners of obstetrics, gynecology and midwifery.
Feel free to never tell a woman that she will deliver “that weekend” for if you
do, she will most certainly NOT deliver “that weekend.”
The weekend came and went. We had missed the wedding, were
still pregnant and I officially entered the land of the screw its. I lost all
willpower to be functionally productive and pacified my annoyingly fidgety mind
with ice-cream and back to back episodes of Fixer Upper. I overanalyzed every
Braxton Hicks contraction and fought with my rational side about relinquishing
control.
Through much prayer, by the following weekend, I had begun
to accept that I might be 4 cm for the rest of eternity and repented of my
impatience in the matter. I started reading more scripture about fearing not
and started singing Bronwyn’s songs about trusting and obeying and peace like a
river.
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| trying to relish those last few days |
I spent a lot of time processing the roots of my unrest. It
wasn’t that I was “done” being pregnant. And it wasn’t that I “couldn’t wait”
to meet my baby girl. I finally realized that all the emotions were wrapped up
in the anticipation that I was about to be hit by a mac truck – and I was growing weary of bracing myself for the blow.
Bronwyn’s birth had taken me to my limits –
utilizing every last bit of energy, resolve and faith to bring her into the
world. I was afraid that I would be asked to do that again, and that I wouldn’t
be able to… or, more likely, that I really, really wouldn’t want to.
More reading, more praying, more singing, and finally,
Sunday morning, May 24th rolled around. I woke for my 2:30 pee (of
course,) waddling to the bathroom – tired, achy and without expectation. As I
sat, I noticed I felt more achy than usual. The dull cramps that had hurt-but-not-hurt, and that had gotten me to 4 cm without any further action seemed to
be a notch stronger than what I was used to. I didn’t come back to bed right
away and so Jeremy popped in to check on me.
I told him that I didn’t feel right, that these contractions
were starting at the back, wrapping around to the front and were of a different beast all together. We waited a few minutes
and I knew – THE REAL DEAL.
Show time, go time, brace yourself for the mac-truck-blow
time. Dear Lord, be merciful, I
asked. There was no point in trying to sleep. I started vomiting. (This is what
my body does, bless it.) Mom woke up and checked on us too and we all got into
our groove. My job was to focus while the other two tiptoed around the house
taking turns getting things together, holding my barf bucket and pushing the
“start” button on the contraction timer app.
I had resolved to not pay attention to clocks or timers but
to let my body do its thing at its pace. I tried laboring on the bed, hated it,
and after a while found my sweet spot in the glider. Jeremy coached me
famously, transferring encouragement without smothering me and I felt steady
enough in the contraction rhythm to focus entirely on the mental game. Instead
of fighting the pain and asking for it to stop, I gave thanks and prayed into
it. I could feel the baby moving and talked to her about sliding down and coming
out. During a few particularly powerful contractions, I felt the actual stretch
of dilation and tried to stay composed and breathe into it instead of against
it. The words “holy crap” may have escaped my lips a few times. But unlike my
first labor experience, this time around, I welcomed it. I had finally learned
that labor is not something that happens to you, its something that you do, and
I was ready to do it right.
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| I didn't deviate from THIS for pretty much the entire labor |
I could tell after two hours of this that mom was getting
pretty anxious. She sensed I was progressing quickly and communicated her
thoughts to Jeremy who I heard say something about the hospital and 5 am. I
had no idea what time it was and I loved that. I felt that I should pee and
decided to make the epic journey to the bathroom in between contractions that
were now coming 2-3 minutes apart. Good Lord why is the bathroom always a mile away. I
hurried down the hall, sat, a contraction started, I relaxed all the muscles
and GUSH – my water broke. Jeremy wasted no time, calling the midwife and
letting her know we were coming NOW as we both knew that things were about to
get crazy.
At 5:05 am we got out of the house and into the car and
commenced the worst possible 15 minute car ride of all time. The pain of
transition and the pot holes of Ithaca are not compatible and I commanded
Jeremy with my “I am literally dying, therefore do what I say or I guarantee
you’ll die too” voice to go faster, slow down, not touch the break, break
quickly, run the red light, wait at the green light and for the love of God
just get me there. Only twice did he disobey and he now reminds me that twice I
told him I hated him. Sorry bud. You did good.
My calm, serene, inward focus had completely died and gone
to wherever they bury placentas and I was border line in panic mode over the fact that I was feeling
pressure reaaaaaallly low and was not
convinced that this child was going to hang out with me much longer. We pulled up to
the front door of the maternity wing and Jeremy opened the door and I just sat
there. I felt like I was having one never ending contraction and there was no
good time to move any part of my lower half. “Let’s get it over with” was
Jeremy’s sage advice and I threw myself out of the car and into the wheel
chair. During pregnancy, I had had visions of walking into the hospital during
this labor, taking my time and stopping only when I needed to breathe through a
contraction.
Yeah no. The serenity ship set sail somewhere between Hudson
and Buffalo street and I needed to either poo my pants or deliver a child post haste. As the sliding doors parted,
Jeremy pushed me over the initial bump and we hellishly made it across the snow
catching rumble strips because the hospital clearly has no compassion for women
in late stages of labor. We rolled up to the maternity ward, got ourselves
buzzed in, went to the front desk and listened to the spiel about ID and
insurance while I huffed and puffed maniacally. Jeremy had just brought me,
letting mom park and schlep the bags which meant we had none of the things this
woman wanted from us but thankfully a L&D nurse rescued me and took me to a
room. They parked the chair, I winced as I stood, the angels in scrubs stripped
me and I hurled myself onto the bed announcing that I needed to push NOW.
Kate, the midwife who had delivered Bronwyn as well, donned
her gown and didn’t even bother to check me. She knew. I have a very readable
face and it was saying all that needed to be said. For the next few minutes, my
body took over. It felt good to give up and in and bleat out a long stream of
honest pain sounds until I felt the ring of fire and knew that it would be
minutes, not hours. I said little, announcing an understated "ouch" and requesting
that Kate not cut me. I felt with my hand her slimy little head and in disbelief found the
courage to push the rest of the way. Sweet relief when her head came out, I was
anxious to finish the rest of her body but suddenly I was hearing “stop, stop
pushing” and I heard the words “nuchal chord.” I wasn’t at a good enough angle
to see what was going on at the time but I know now that the cord was around
her neck twice and Kate couldn’t slip it off without cutting it first. Clamp,
clamp, cut, ok you can keep pushing and with one more burst of force, I pushed
her shoulders and body out and with a sigh of relief welcomed my slippery baby
onto my chest.
I spoke words of congratulations to her only briefly until
the nurses picked her up and took her. She had not cried and the seconds were
passing and no noise was coming out of her yet. Come on baby, cry for mommy, I said to her across the room. Come on baby, let me hear you. I pleaded
with her, and a solid minute passed during which time I heard several others
plead with her as well. We all sighed and said thank
you, when finally she let out that precious cry and we could return to our
celebration of new life.
Our family snuggled, euphoric and somewhat in disbelief over
what had just happened. It was over. Three and a half hours from its beginning,
the mac truck had committed its hit and run, but I didn’t feel like it had run
me over, backed up to hit me again running me over repeatedly like it had the first time around.
I actually said to Jeremy, “I’m not sure I earned my push
present.” He laughed at me and reminded me that even though I knew it could
have been worse, that does not discount that any and all childbirth
requires superhuman strength, and so yes, I could still consider this one an
accomplishment.
I would spend the next 48 hours staring at my little miracle
and thanking God for both her life and her merciful arrival.
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| my first born suddenly looks like a giant to me. |
As we are settling into our new normal as a family of four,
we are excited for the next chapter in this wonderful story. Thank you for
joining us Leonie Michaela!
