"It is said that women in labor leave their bodies, travel to the stars, collect the souls of their babies and return to this world together." - Anonymous
I wanted to share Arden's birth story publicly, because I think it's important to talk about these things, and it was therapeutic to write. Thankfully we had a pretty normal labor and birth - still really challenging, but worth every single moment.
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It's 1:30 am on Wednesday morning, and I'm getting contraction-like cramps. It's a day past my due date, and I'm more than ready for the end of this pregnancy. I go to the bathroom and there's blood in the toilet - par for the course, but I've had problems with bleeding earlier in my pregnancy. I call a midwife at the hospital who tells me that it's most likely not a sign of imminent labor, but suggests I come in anyway just in case it's anything worse.
Ben calls a taxi and we head to the hospital. A midwife takes my vitals and tells me I am only 1 cm dilated, that I will probably have my baby in the next day or two - but not right now. Ben and I leave the hospital, and he decides to pick up his laptop at his nearby office so he can work from home. He leaves me his coat because I'm shivering, and I sit at the tram stop eating some cookies I've baked the previous day.
A drunk-looking man arrives at the tram stop and sits next to me. He asks me about the weather, and then eyes my small tupperware.
"Did you make them yourself? What kind of cookies?"
I nod. "Ginger molasses." I offer him one, which he takes cautiously, as if I'm the more suspicious star of the scene.
"You going home after a night out?" he asks, after taking a bite and nodding his approval.
"I left the hospital," I say. "I'm in early labor." Ben's coat completely covers any hint of my nine-month baby bump.
"Damn," he says, raising his eyebrows. "So, you could, like... have a baby right here? And I'd have to deliver it?"
"You wouldn't have to. We're right by the hospital."
He asks me what I do, and I tell him I'm studying journalism at Uni.
"Which uni?"
"Melbourne."
"Hey, I used to go there. I studied piano performance."
My eyes automatically drift towards his hands and I try to imagine them gracing the keys of a Steinway instead of holding a cigarette and half a homemade cookie. I mention nothing of my own classical piano background, and wonder if he can somehow tell that I, too, used to play.
He closes his eyes. "What if I told you about a man who became a concert pianist, and toured the world... and ended up right back here, doing nothing?"
I stare blankly ahead, wondering about the significance of such a conversation with a stranger, on the cusp of my firstborn's birthday, in a city so far away from any of the previous lives I've lived, including the piano performance one.
The man holds up the last bite of the cookie. "I just can't finish this," he says. "It was great. But, heartburn. I will now sacrifice it... to the gods." He throws the morsel onto the tram tracks. A minute later, the tram arrives and we board through different doors. I never see him again.
Back at the apartment, I crawl into bed and turn on the contraction monitoring app I downloaded the night before. The waves increase in pain, but they're not long or intense enough. I quickly learn that lying down feels more painful than moving around, so I get out of bed and loiter in the living room. Ben arrives with his laptop and gets started on working from home.
I spend the rest of the day trying to take my mind off the pain. I make myself some soup, I journal, I even try doodling in one of those adult colouring books that are all the rage these days, a gift from my cousin. With each contraction I close my eyes and hold on to the nearest piece of furniture. They are getting longer and more intense now. At 9pm Ben suggests we head back to the hospital, so he calls another taxi.
The midwife on duty takes my vitals again, and is surprised that I am already 4 cm dilated. She calls me a "quiet achiever," as my heavy breathing throughout the contractions seems calmer than what she'd expect. However, she is afraid that I won't progress quickly enough in the next few hours and I might need to be induced. She consults with some doctors and returns with some advice: to either go home for a bit or walk around the hospital for an hour or two, to let labor progress naturally.
Ben and I decide to walk around the hospital, which is hard for me to do as I am in a lot of pain. We take a seat in the deserted hospital lobby until I begin to make loud groaning noises. I am a little embarrassed, especially when we return to the emergency centre and there is another pregnant couple waiting in the lobby, no doubt horrified at my performance (right in front of the television, of course! - Ben and I giggle hysterically about it later). But at least I am now 5 cm dilated and finally ready for admission. Ben and the midwife help me walk to the birthing suite, stopping at every corner so I can catch my breath and wait out each contraction.
The midwife assigned to my birthing suite is kind and informative. I vomit soon after we get settled, and she tells me that it's a good sign, that my body is working very hard. She dims the lights and turns on some "zen" music - the kind of soundtrack you'd hear at a faux Chinese restaurant - and gives me the lowdown on pain relief options: nitrous oxide (gas); a shot of morphine; and of course, the epidural, which she stresses will involve being confined to bed with an IV drip and a catheter. "I will not offer you pain relief," she says. "You will need to ask me for it."
It hurts to move or lie down, so I sit rigidly on the birthing bed and hold Ben's hand. He sends a text update to our families, but I ask him to stop because it's a distraction (sorry, family!). He is all I have at the moment and I need 100% of his presence. He brings me a birthing ball and I lean on it, exhausted. It's now Thursday, and we've been awake since 1:30 am the previous day.
The contractions are now strong enough that I am yelling at the top of my lungs during each wave. I think of it as an opportunity to practice some vocal exercises, and I wonder how long this will last, if I'll lose my voice. I feel like crying, but no tears come. Instead, I reach into my shallow memory and practice some birthing mantras - breathing in peace and breathing out love, breathing to the rhythm of my favourite songs. I try to remember the hypnobirthing sensory techniques I'd read about, something about a glove and a rainbow, but I don't recall anything beyond that. After a particularly intense contraction, I ask the midwife if this is what I'm supposed to be doing, as I was too late to sign up for birthing classes and I'm flying blind. She reassures me that I'm doing things perfectly.
At 7 cm I ask for the nitrous oxide, feeling a little pang of defeat at my departure from an entirely natural birth. The gas doesn't do much - I later describe it to Ben as being drunk at a party with a bunch of people I can't stand, but not really caring to do anything about it. The pain increases to the point where I am screaming into the gas tube, collapsed on top of the birthing ball. Ben has a hard time watching me in labor and cries a few times, he later tells me. Even though I'm the one in physical pain, I do not envy his emotional misery at all. He holds my hand, and at one point is prompted to feed me packets of honey as I am too dehydrated. "I think I need an epidural," I say.
The midwife sits down next to me and reiterates that an epidural will mean confinement to the bed with an IV and catheter, that I've been doing so well and am nearly to the end of the process. She instead suggests the shot of morphine, which carries some risk but is a much less invasive method of pain relief. I ask for the morphine and receive it.
The midwife brings out a floor mattress for Ben to sleep on, and tells me to try and get some rest, to save up energy for the inevitable pushing and birth. The morphine does not take the pain away, but lets me fade in and out of consciousness. The waves increase and my hand clutching the gas tube is shaking. I stretch my other hand out to Ben and he takes it, still lying on the mattress, but after a while he drifts off to sleep.
I think of my friends who have recently lost babies in miscarriage and stillbirth, who I imagine would do anything to be in my shoes in that moment. I dedicate waves of pain to each of them. Then I dedicate waves to members of our families and close friends. Soon there are no more people to dedicate waves to.
Some time later, the lights are turned on - it is morning and time for the midwife shift change. I thank the previous midwife and am introduced to two new women, a midwife and a trainee. They begin to talk to me about pushing. I am now 9 cm dilated.
They let me push in different positions: on all fours, on my side, on a cute purple birthing chair. They teach me how to push, how to feel the difference between a shallow one and a pelvic push, coaching me to channel my yelling into pure pushing. I try my hardest. An hour and a half passes, and a doctor arrives to assess the situation. They all tell me that I'm making good progress. I, however, am not so sure. "What are some other options?" I ask.
The doctor suggests a vacuum delivery, which would require an episiotomy - but at that point I am exhausted from two days of labor, over an hour of active pushing, and nine months of waiting to meet my child. A vacuum delivery sounds good to me. The doctor exits and returns with a cart full of terrifying-looking instruments, but ones that will help bring my daughter into this world. Her heart rate is dropping slightly, and I am glad I asked for assistance. A pediatric doctor enters the room and sets up an emergency resuscitation station for the baby, just in case.
"Just a few more pushes," says the midwife softly. "You're going to meet your baby girl very soon."
The midwives and doctor instruct me on when to push and when to stop pushing and breathe. This is a lot harder than it sounds. I hold Ben's hand, not looking at anyone or anything, just closing my eyes and envisioning my daughter and I, working hard together to bring her into this world.
One big push and a few small ones later, she is finally here - gray and slimy, present and magnificent with her eyes open and aware. She is tangled in her cord, most likely the reason it took so long to bring her out. The midwives immediately place her on my chest for skin-to-skin contact, one of two requests I've made. There is a moment of complete silence as everyone holds their breath, waiting to hear her first. We hear a small weak cry and then a much bigger one as she clears her throat from the life she has left behind in the womb.
After a few minutes they ask me if they can cut her cord, which has stopped pulsating from the placenta - delayed cord clamping, my other request. Ben makes the cut, and then she is all ours. Our flesh and blood, our history and our future.
"She looks like your brother," says Ben. "What should we call her?"
"How about Arden Brie?" Arden has been on the top of our name list for a long time. According to some sources, the female version means "valley of the eagle," which is Ben's spirit animal given to him by his father. We name her Brie for her uncle Gabriel. And for the delicious cheese.
Ben and I bond with the newest member of our family. I feel no more pain, save for the short sting of local anesthetic before the doctor stitches up the episiotomy. Arden is calm and inquisitive and strong. For the moment, she looks a lot like me and my side of the family, with darker features and Asian-shaped eyes.
After some time, the midwives take Arden for her measurements and reflex tests and I head to the bathroom to gingerly take a shower. I look at my body in the mirror, observing the changes, babyless and sagging everywhere. Nobody talks much about the postpartum period, probably because of our natural instinct to preserve human life and ensure our survival. There is a lot of blood and discomfort and very gradual healing. After my shower, the bathroom looks like the outtakes of a Quentin Tarantino movie. Everything I touch afterwards is stained with blood, like I am some kind of horrific version of King Midas. But I don't care. This is how life begins.
We spend the next two days in the hospital, in a shared room with another couple and baby. I pass a blood clot the size of Texas and am monitored for postpartum hemmorhage. Because it's a public hospital, Ben isn't allowed to stay overnight, so I am left alone with Arden for her first two nights of life. It's hard to feed and change her while hooked up to an IV, so I call the midwives for assistance often throughout the night. Arden is a calm and pleasant baby, although she doesn't like being alone in her bassinet. I let her sleep next to me in the hospital bed.
On the second day Arden and I are cleared for discharge, armed with paperwork and information about midwife home visits, doctor appointments and breastfeeding tips. Ben calls our friend Rick to drive us from the hospital to our apartment, and we begin packing up our belongings. We dress Arden in one of the tiny outfits I've packed for her, and we strap her into the infant carseat the Victorian government has provided for us.
Ben carries the carseat, I take his other hand, and together we exit the hospital, beginning our journey as a family of three.
CK
