Maïa's birth story

Maïa's birthday is coming up in six days, not that she's counting. And I've been thinking a lot about her birth. Last year, I wrote Solanne's birth story, and some readers expressed an interest in Maïa's story. So here it is.

At the end of October that year, I came down with some sort of flu. It was awful. It was bad enough being eight-and-a-bit months pregnant, but being stuffed up and feverish was really gross. Then, on the night of October 30th, my fever was getting to me, and I was hoping it would break. I had a difficult night's sleep. At 2 am on Halloween morning, I was lying awake in bed, with the covers off, thinking, I should move the duvet away from between my legs; imagine if my water broke! So I moved it, and a moment later, you guessed it, my water broke. I ran to the bathroom. I knew this was it. I called out to Derek. He walked over to the bathroom, groggily, and asked me what was wrong. I said, I think it's time. That sure woke him up! His eyes flew open in utter shock and disbelief. Really? Now?

If it had been up to him, we would have been on the road to the hospital. But I calmed him down and told him that we should page Lily, our midwife. So we did. And since I wasn't having any contractions yet, I was told to try to go back to sleep, it could be a long few hours (or days!) ahead. So we headed back to bed. I slept a little, but mostly I was excited... and nervous. It seemed pretty early, at 37 weeks. And here I thought the baby would be late, so I had another third of the semester to teach at the university. Luckily, it was just one class.

In the morning, Derek headed over to my office (a block away from our home) to post a note saying I couldn't make my office hours. One of my midwives came by to check in on me. It was actually her birthday! She said Halloween is a great time to have a birthday. I secretly hoped that our little one would wait til the next day.

While there were still no contractions, I busied myself with the rest of the marking I had to do. I planned out the rest of my classes and sent my schedule to my TA, who would be teaching the next four classes. We made a few phone calls to settle everything up and also to tell our friends and family that soon it would be time. Still no contractions. Then, at around 2 pm, they began. Looking back, they were difficult from the onset, and they just got worse. I couldn't walk through them; I could just lie on our bed and breathe. The contractions weren't close enough together to warrant going to the hospital or calling the midwife yet again. So we tried getting me into the bath. We were in an old house, so the bath was one of those old ones on feet; it was narrow and very deep. Bad idea. It was hard to get me in, and once I was in, I hated it, so I had to get back out...

Then around 8 pm, I couldn't take it anymore, so we called my mom and she came by to drive us to the hospital. She would be in the waiting room the entire time, knitting away. She finished a little sweater that night!

Lily had prepared the room for us: the jacuzzi was filled with hot water, the room was quiet and darkened. There were no nurses checking in on me or asking me questions. Just Lily keeping an eye on things. She understood instinctively, without my telling her, that I did not want anyone touching me or talking to me. I just wanted to know that she was there and that Derek was there. Lily would come by every now and then to take my pressure and temp (because I had been running a fever). At one point, one of her veteran colleagues came by for a consult. Everything looked good...

But all I remember was the pain. It was such an intense experience that I think I was slightly hallucinating. I recall these images in my head of a blue metal box, which represented my contractions. It would expand with each pain, and then grow smaller. But through each contraction, it grew slightly larger. Soon (hours later??), it transformed into Mr Brockelhurst, from Jane Eyre. It was big and imposing and frightening. I told Derek about it, and I thought that he must consider me insane. But he didn't say so; he just gently cheered me through each contraction, letting me deal with the pain the way I knew best. He didn't touch me, but he let me put my hand on his. He didn't talk when he knew I didn't want him to. We were so in synch.

I had wanted to try labour without any pain medication, but when at around 2 am (I think) I was told that I was at 3 cm — still. I looked over at Derek, and I knew he wouldn't think any less or more of me, no matter the decision I made. So I decided to go with the epidural. There was no anestheseologist on the floor at the time, so he had to be paged. We waited about 45 minutes. By the time he was on the way, Lily checked again, and I was miraculously at 9 cm. I knew I could do this. So I called it off. I don't know how much time elapsed, but it seemed pretty quick when I felt my body constrict. Lily came by and asked me if I felt like pushing. I realised that's what I had been doing. So she checked me again, to make sure I was fully dialated so as not to hurt myself, and that's when all hell broke loose.

Uh, Cristina, you might want to wait. Let's try not pushing.

Not pushing? She showed me how to breathe through a contraction without pushing. Derek breathed with me. His eyes kept me focused.

I'm not sure what she said then, but I know she ran out of the room to get someone. A resident came in with an ultrasound machine. She introduced herself and quickly examined me. She's breech! That's all I remember.

And then people, people, people. Each one doing something different. Lights on. Noise everywhere. A nurse took Derek away from me to get him changed. Another nurse introduced herself and stood by my side, prepping me. When a contraction came, I forgot how to breathe, so I started pushing. I didn't know this before, but it seems that the need to push in such a situation is not something one can control. The body does it on its own; one can help it along, but there's little to do to stop it. So when the nurse was upset with me for pushing, I started to cry. I couldn't stop, and I told her so. She eased up a bit, and told me that I could hurt myself if I didn't stop. Like that helped... but she did breathe with me, which did help.

More noise. Lights. Machines. Being wheeled out. Into the even-brighter hall. Into the O.R. More noise and lights and machines and people. My midwife was suddenly by my side. But I kept checking the door for Derek. What was taking him so long?? It seemed that the door opened dozens of times, but it was never him.

And then they rolled me over to put in the spinal. I remember the doctor telling me it would hurt, but I don't remember the pain of it. All I remember is the sweet bliss of quiet. My body was suddenly still. I could finally make sense of it all. The pain was gone. Poof.

I was suddenly cracking jokes and able to enjoy the fact that my little baby would soon, finally!, be in my arms. And then Derek appeared. (It turns out that he had changed into his lovely green outfit in record time, but they wouldn't let him in.) He was wearing a surgical mask and cap; all I could see were his gorgeous eyes, and I knew we could get through this.

They put up a sheet at chest level so I couldn't see anything (thank God!). And there was some very serious tugging going on. Our little one was stuck in there, bum first. They got her out and exclaimed, it's a girl!

What joy. Finally. She was here. I heard her cry, and then I cried to hear it. They wrapped her up and gave her to Derek. I would have to wait a while to hold my baby. The spinal had made me numb from the neck down. And, to boot, they were going to have to take her to the special care unit. She had an eye infection that would need antibiotics; nothing serious, but it had to be taken care of. So off they went, the pediatrician and new Daddy, with my baby.

The whole experience is a bitter sweet one, and one that took me a while to work through. I had so wanted, and very much expected, to have a "normal" delivery. And I was almost there when I had to have this emergency c-section. And I couldn't hold my baby right away. And she wasn't completely well. And the special care unit was a very long corridor away from my room. And they gave her a bottle to drink when I wanted to breastfeed exclusively. And my maternity ward nurse got mad at me when I stayed with my daughter for an hour because, in her words, it would make my recovery take longer. My recovery be damned: my baby needed me so she could get better. She was so tiny, and so alone, in that little bassinet with that IV in her tiny little hand. And the little block taped to her hand so that she wouldn't bend it and take the IV out. And the heart monitor.

In retrospect, we got through it because we had to, but I realise now that it was a very upsetting series of events. Don't get me wrong; I am thankful everyday that I had to opportunity to delivery my baby in a safe, clean, modern hospital. That my baby is alive. That I am alive. But I think that the whole thing made my first few weeks and months as a mother more difficult than they were with Solanne, and not just because I was a first-time mother. A woman's experience of birth, even if it involves emergency measures, should be more positive. And she should be followed up my a counsellor, someone to talk through the events. And she shouldn't be yelled at by her nurse. And she (or her partner!) should not be bullied into bottle-feeding because the baby is hungry (when in fact, she isn't).

In the end, I have come out of this experience a much stronger person. I think it was the most physically and emotionally trying time in my life, bar none. And now I can talk to others about it and be an advocate, in my own little way, for new parents. But best of all, and this isn't meant to sound trite or easy, I have my Maïa.

Happy Birthday, in advance, Maïa.