Leonie Michaela's birth story

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 24^th at 5:55 am. This is her story.

The story begins quite a bit before Leonie’s actual birth. On Wednesday May 13^th, 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.

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 24^th 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.

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.

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!

Bronwyn Joy's birth story

It occurs to me that my birth story could be written differently every single day. Had I sat down to write this the day after, it would have sounded different than if I had written it three days after or a week after, or a week and a half after. To be honest, processing this birth has been an ongoing thing for me, and I may have to return to this post and make additions later as I continue to understand different aspects differently. So please bear in mind, (and try not to judge) that this is simply an honest reflection of where I am right now. Oh, and if you were looking for the short version, this is probably not for you ;)

---

The Birth Story of Bronwyn Joy Colvin as remembered by her mother...

I woke up at 1am on Saturday March 24^th and was 

feeling really crampy. I poked Jeremy and told him this and said that I wanted to go sit on the toilet for a while. I peed and came back to bed and grumbled a bitabout how much the cramps hurt. I tried for about the next ten minutes to sleep and then ended up sitting up and really trying to figure out what was so painful. Jeremy suggested we go out to the kitchen. I sat and ate a bowl of cereal and we started paying attention a bit more to the rhythm of these pains and decided that they were probably contractions. Given that it was the middle of the night, we weren’t sure whether to try to keep sleeping or walk, so  we did a bit of both. By 6 am when mom and dad started to get up, I was feeling pretty yucky and we were totally confident that these were labor contractions. For the next several hours, I did laps around the living room and kitchen, sat a bit in the glider rocker, sat on the couch, sat on the birth ball. Things were rather painful. Not knock me on my face painful, but enough that I was feeling like, “this is going to get worse?” I was feeling nauseas, which for me is the worst feeling ever. And I was feeling conflicted. I really wasn’t sure that I wanted this labor to continue. I was afraid of how “bad” it was going to get and was afraid that I couldn’t handle it. I told Jeremy at one point that I didn’t really want to do things to “speed” labor because, to me, that was like ushering in my own demise, bringing on my own pain. Its one thing if somebody else hurts you, its another thing if you hurt yourself. I’m strong when pain is inevitable, but I have a hard time mentally putting myself into pain. Jeremy lovingly tried to convince me to get over it and not be the one to hold up labor because of my own fear. The internal conflict did not subside, but I tried hard to follow Jeremy’s prompts regarding sitting up and staying on the ball, etc. By late afternoon contractions were coming every 4-5 minutes apart and the pain was significant enough that I was really having to focus. I was feeling persistently nauseas and trying to eat little bits of cherios, cliff bars and ice hunks. I was trying to figure out where my strength was going to come from. Jeremy made me smile with some youtube videos, and mom thought that was a good thing. Kelly Clarkson’s “Stronger” video and Shakira’s “waka waka” video were fun the first time around, but they didn’t exactly provide peace. I asked for itunes to be set to the “Current favs” which is all worship music. The first song up was Aaron Shust’s “Come to me all who are weary and I will give you rest.” I just cried. The fear was dissipating and this was really happening. We were going to have a baby. Bronwyn was going to come. A few more hours at home and we decided to call the midwife. She told us to come on in to the hospital and we agreed. Jeremy and mom both thought that I was in late first stage. I assumed I should be 5 or 6 centimeters by that time, and we knew that we wanted our 2 doses of penicillin, so we didn’t want to wait at home any longer. The two seats in the back of the car were folded down and the blue gymnastics mat was laid in the back. I put some clothes on and made my way to the car. I climbed in and continued to breath through contractions as we pulled out of the garage. Dad drove the speed limit and no faster, but I didn’t really mind as long as the starting and stopping was smooth. I was in the same position I had just been in at home and was likely to return to in the hospital, so the fact that I was in the back of the car wasn’t really a big deal to me. We pulled up at the hospital and a wheel chair was brought out. The lady at the desk was nice to us and didn’t hold us up but sent us up to maternity right away. They had a room ready for us and I went right in and laid back down on my side. They put the fetal monitor on me which was relatively unintrusive except for the fact that I had to lift my hips up off the bed which engaged stomach muscles that hurt to be used. Bronwyn’s heart rate was fantastic and all my vitals sound. Kate came in to check my dilation and when she told me that I was only 4, I think I literally said the words, “Are you serious?” I had expected so much more progress and was genuinely discouraged by the words I had just heard. After everybody left, my discouragement was obvious to Jeremy and mom and we had a little pow wow as to what to do now. The nurse came in to start my hep lock and get the first round of penicillin going which burned so badly as it coursed through my veins. The entire lower half of my forearm and top part of my hand hurt so badly that I was actually distracted from the contractions for the 30 minutes it took for it to all drip in. The next 4 hours were spent going from bed to rocking chair to walking the halls. I was tired, nauseas and unsure of myself. At some point I begged Jeremy and mom to let me lay down and snooze for a bit. Waking up for each contraction, I caught a few zzz’s before my coaches felt like my sleeping was slowing down labor too much. I got up and did more rocking and walking. I was still nauseas, still shaking uncontrollably from time to time. Weren’t these signs of transition? I was sure that at my next dilation check I would be atleast 7 if not 8. By 6 am I was checked again and had progressed a whopping 1 cm over night. Really? Another ten hours of pain and only 1 centimeter more? More discouragement. I started praying through my contractions, asking for strength and praying that my uterus would open and not be inefficient. My back was hurting something terrible so I got into the shower and just stood there while water rolled off of me, taking the pain with it. I stood and swayed and prayed and focused. For 2 and a half hours I stayed under that water stream, eventually needing to sit on a stool. Every time I changed positions I went through a period of intense pain. I feared getting out of the shower, worrying that leaving the soothing stream of water would hurt so badly. I was starting to feel faint. Jeremy was feeding me little bits of graham cracker and ice chips. I got out of the shower and dried off and went back to the rocker. The time line, to be honest is all very fuzzy. I know that over the course of the day Sunday I walked, I rocked, I ate small pieces of food and drank small bits of water, I threw up several times, I wanted to throw up almost all the time, and I cried at least a few times. I What was my body doing to me? My contractions were all over the place, sometimes 3 minutes apart, sometimes 10. The fact that they were not getting regularly closer together made me afraid that I was not progressing like I should. The pain was intense, but was it accomplishing anything? Why was I spacing out? What was going on? My biggest discouragement was that I felt like it was my fault, that I in some way was failing myself by not doing something that I needed to be doing to progress. Jeremy sat me down at one point and told me I needed to let go. I was trying, I honestly was. I didn’t know what else to do. I cried and cried because I felt like I was disappointing my coach and not doing what he wanted me to do. I saw the disappointment on his face at how long this was taking and that hurt worse than the contractions. He promised he was not disappointed, and kept telling me he was proud of me, but I was still discouraged. I continued to pray. The battle field of the mind was more crucial to my success than the battlefield of my uterus. The harder the contraction was, the louder I prayed in my head. I recited scripture mostly, yelling in my own head, “I am fearfully and wonderfully made!” “God is good – he does all things well, he makes no mistakes – every good and perfect gift comes from Him!” I repeated these things over and over. The pain was intense. There were times when I wasn’t sure I had anything to pray for the next contraction and told Jeremy he needed to pray me through it so that I could withstand the pain. I found heprayed too slow. I asked him to talk faster and pray louder and stronger to try to match this coping mechanism that had been actively working in my head. He did his best to give me what I needed. We asked to be checked again at some point and I was told I was 7. I figured I was close to transition even though my contractions were still spacey and random. We decided to get in the tub and let that sooth me a bit. I sat and focused for a few hours, still getting more penicillin on my every 4 hour cycle. Jeremy sat in the tub with me also at one point. I remember repeating over and over in my head through that tub phase, “I will praise you in this storm! You are still worthy of worship!” “God you are doing it! You are bringing this baby down and out into the world!” The pain was so intense. I got out after a few hours of working through contractions in the tub and stayed in the room a bit longer to dry off in a warm environment. I hated the shaking that seemed to take over my body so easily. Each time I would shake I would writhe in pain because I could not relax through contractions. When I felt ready, we made our way back to the room and got checked again. Still 7. Really? How can such intense pain be accompanied by zero dilation? Was God actually not doing what I had been praising Him for? I was so confused. This is what I could not understand. Why was my body punishing me so brutally and not dilating at all? Kate started talking intervention. She suggested breaking my water, or giving Pitocin to advance me. I didn’t really want to hear any of it. I was so happy that my water had not broken up to this point and I was terrified that if it broke now and I still didn’t progress that they would force me to have a c-section. Kate left the room and we talked about it. Actually I think mom and Jeremy talked about it first and then came and talked to me. They were in favor of breaking my water, feeling like, if I didn’t go into transition soon, I was going to have no energy left to push. I was nervous about being “Artificially” thrown into transition, worrying that it would hurt worse than if my water broke on its own timeline. Again, Jeremy and mom encouraged me to let go, embrace the process and decide to bring this girl into the world. They wanted me to progress, almost at any cost, fearing that a c-section would be inevitable if I didn’t start pushing soon. They were confident that this was the right thing to do, and so we called Kate back in and she broke my water and stripped my membranes and told us to call her when I felt the need to push. I was in transition almost immediately. I stood up over a pad on the floor and just watched water leak out of me. There had been only trace amounts of bloody show before this, but now there was something substantial coming out. Despite my fear, it felt good to see something happening. My body writhed in pain. I didn’t know what to do. I tried relaxing to it, but that seemed nearly impossible. I kept saying to Jeremy, “this is the shortest time, right?” He encouraged me that yes. But an hour later, I was still in transition. My time on the birth ball was hurting my back so much. Mom was massaging me from behind and Jeremy was encouraging me from the front. I was hot and cold and kept having them put blankets on me and take them off in between each contraction. They were so kind to oblige. At one point the exhaustion of holding myself up on the ball was wearing down my resolve so I decided to try side lying. Worst idea ever. For about an hour, I laid on my side and moaned as every contraction, I was convinced was trying to kill me. This was really the first time I had uttered any noise at all, but I just couldn’t mentally manage this pain. This was too much. I finally said somewhere in that hour, “I can’t do this. Please bring me something for the pain.” I really meant the “I can’t do this” part, but I think Jeremy knew that I didn’t really want any pain. Had someone walked in the door right then with a tray of drugs I probably wouldn’t have taken any. As bad as it hurt, and it hurt like something unimaginable, I was still stubborn. My tolerance was pretty much shot, but my resolve was not. Quite the combination. I finally sat up in the bed and focused my energy down. That helped localize the pain a bit more and gave me something to focus on once again. The pain was so bad in my tailbone region that with each contraction was trying to lift my rear off the bed to alleviate some pressure. The IV in my hand was being squished by my doing this and my hand was swelling something atrocious. I tried to just sit there without doing the lifting and frustration was growing. I got checked again and they said I was 8. I remember at this point being equally disappointed at my slow progresses as during previous dilation checks, but at this stage in the game, I felt like I didn’t have the energy to waste on doing anything other than focusing on beating each contraction. I didn’t have the strength to cry about my lack of progress. I just got back to work. One contraction at a time. Keep it together. No falling apart now. No more tears, just triumph. This was the hour of manning up. I wasn’t sure what to pray any more. After my crisis of faith with the whole 7 cm being stuck after praising God for progressing me, I wasn’t sure what to think of God’s involvement with my uterus any more. I knew He was with me, and with Bronwyn, but I was starting to think that Eve and the curse were having their way. I wasn’t bitter. It is what it is. They told me I could probably start pushing in about an hour, so we watched that clock. I tried to not ask for a time update too often. Every 15 minutes or so I’d ask. But by 7 o’clock, I was ready for another check and wanted to know if I could start pushing. I was told I was a little more than 9 and I could probably push whenever I felt the urge. I don’t think that urge came physically, but mentally I was so there. I asked for the squat bar and we tried that out for a bit until I realized that that was crazy uncomfortable as a long term position. Hands and knees was excruciating, and so after 3 or 4 contractions with really poor pushing efforts, I finally sat down on the bed and accepted a less exotic pushing position. It took a little while to figure out what I was supposed to be doing. I actually admitted to Kate, “I don’t know how to do this.” She encouraged me to listen to my body and work with the contractions. She tied a towel to the squat bar and had me pull on it to bring some leverage into the pushing. It didn’t feel right. I think, similar to the dilation portion of labor, I was also fearing in the pushing that more effort would equal more pain. For the first 30 minutes or so I think I more or less tried to figure out what everything was supposed to feel like. Kate’s promptings about making progress and having a “progress push” during every contraction was helpful. I was really tired and realized fairly quickly that I did NOT want the pushing phase to go on forever as that would do nothing but extend the agony, not lesson it. So I started pushing without reservation. I would get 2-4 good pushes in on each contraction. I got into a rhythm. Mom and Jeremy were holding my legs up and for a while I would rest them down in between each contraction until I eventually lost the strength to move them up or down myself. I was sipping water in between each push and trying to rest, giving my all each and every time. There was an OB doctor on call, doctor Georgeson, who gave a look and helped figure out that Bronwyn was posterior. She attempted to turn Bronwyn and help her negotiate my tailbone region. On two occasions she fiddled with me internally and was happy with what was going on. I have no idea what was going on. But she and Kate were still talking to each other about whether this girl was going to come out on her own. They mentioned c-section and vacuum, which only made me push harder. Later Kate would admit that she said those things out loud in case I needed motivation to keep going. I lost all track of time and could think of only one thing. Pushing this baby out. Every so often I would look at Jeremy for love and mom for encouragement and Kate for confirmation, and then I would close my eyes again and focus once more. They asked if I wanted a mirror, and I declined feeling like I couldn’t handle the distraction. I either wanted to see Bronwyn all the way out or not at all. That was my thought. I was so scared that at any minute I would literally pass out unconscious from all of the strain. They brought me an oxygen mask to inhale during the rest periods. Maxine, the nurse was holding my head and telling me that I was doing a good job. I kept talking to Bronwyn in my head. “Ok girl, lets do this. Come on out.” I asked Kate at one point, how many more pushes. When she said less than 10, I knew I could do it. They had been talking about her hair and I could see Jeremy and Mom looking down at me every contraction and they showed encouragement on their faces. There was a point when She was so close that I almost couldn’t stop pushing because the pressure was so great. Eventually I could see her head from my own perspective. She was so close. I pushed a few more times saying to Bronwyn each time, “this is the last one girl, the last one.” It was not easy. Kate said twice, “Im going to smack this girl when she comes out. She is not making this easy!” Finally we came to the push where Kate was saying, “this is it! Push push push!” Her head came out with a hand up by the side and I just kept pushing. Next came her shoulder and then her little body and her hips and her legs and the next thing I knew there was a baby on my chest. I looked at her for a brief second and then my head fell back on the pillow. I was so exhausted I couldn’t stop myself from crying. I tried to hold my head up and talk to Bronwyn, to tell her I loved her. Periodically my head would fall back again. They suctioned her and she gave a cry. We had a daughter. I tried to put her to my breast and she suckled for a minute, but had some goop in her lungs. They suctioned her a bit and were still worried about her gurgling so they took her to the table under the warmer to suction her properly. I was spent. As in completely and utterly spent. I was still catching my breath as Kate asked me to push out the placenta. She immediately began stitching me up. It occurred to me that Bronwyn’s umbilical cord must have been cut if she was taken away. I guess I saw Jeremy do that. The daze I was in was intense. I was just so tired.  

It took time for that rush of happy and in love emotions to flood in. The relief of the whole labor and delivery being over was the top emotion I felt for quite a while after Bronwyn actually came out. I never regretted going natural, even though it meant an insanely long labor and delivery. Kate admitted that she would have given me Pitocin a long time ago. I just didn’t want that for my daughter. For days after birth, every time I heard Jeremy tell the story, I would just cry and cry because the memory of how hard it was was still all so fresh. I didn’t feel proud of myself or particularly accomplished, just traumatized by everything my body had gone through. Now as I’m starting to forget much of the pain, I look back on those 42 hours of active labor and 3 hours of purple faced pushing and I consider it a necessary sacrifice for my daughter. I am trying so hard to count it all joy. Hopefully I will reach that point in the next several years before we try for number two.

In the mean time, does anyone have any advice for processing a hard labor? 

Bronwyn Joy, 1 day old.