My 54-hour labor and home birth story: Part 2
On November 21, 2022, I gave birth to a 9-lb baby boy after 54 hours in labor.This is my (unplanned) home birth story. I’m telling it in segments on instagram with a more comprehensive version over here on the blog. If you haven’t yet, check out Part 1 of my birth story for some context.
Night 2: A dark night of the soul
Tiffany always said labor tends to ramp up in the middle of the night, and ramp up it did. Almost immediately after getting into bed that night, after 30+ hours in labor, the contractions intensified even more.
I was awakened to intensifying contractions at least every 5 minutes, somehow exhausted and drowsy enough (from the benadryl) to sleep in between the contractions.
The contractions I had prepared myself for had a ramp-up stage, then peaked, then released. Until this point, they had mostly followed this pattern- I could endure the contraction knowing it would peak around 45-60 seconds, then let off.
The contractions I had that night did not follow the pattern.
They had this cruel second ramp-up stage - they’d climb to what I thought was the peak by bout 40 seconds, then it would escalate for 20 more seconds, followed by 10-15 seconds of easing off.
If the first peak was unbearable, the escalation to the second peak was almost torturous (mentally as much as physically); but I endured. We had to be getting closer.
The “easing off,” however, was not as it sounds; the other unexpected aspect of my contractions through the night was that I wasn’t really getting any relief in between them. It felt like a really painful period cramp (with my history of endo, I’d had my fair share of gnarly ones)- like my uterus was recovering from the intensity of the contractions in between. In my understanding of birth, I thought I’d ride out contractions then have a break for a few minutes. This wasn’t part of the plan.
The toilet is my enemy
I got up every 30 mins to an hour to empty my bladder, trying to relieve some pressure, but I’m not sure how much it helped. I felt the dilemma of needing to hydrate but not wanting to drink too much because peeing was SO painful, sitting on the toilet was SO painful and I usually had to wait out an even-more-intense contraction. The pressure sitting on the toilet was like a deep, agonizing ache through my entire pelvis. I can barely describe the sensation, but my body remembers.
Each time I got back in bed, the whole repositioning process would cause contractions that stopped me in my tracks, on hands and knees trying to lay down, and then I shook uncontrollably from the pain, but also felt like I was freezing. I would ride out one more contraction, then lay down.
When I finally would lay down, rolling over would cause another intense contraction, and it took a minute to stop shaking.
That left about 1.5-2 minutes to sleep until the next one.
I never remember feeling those contractions in my back, but I do remember trying to put pressure on my sacrum with my hand to bring relief. It took a 2% edge off, at best.
That night was…
just so, so hard.
“Should I just go to the hospital?”
I kept having thoughts of “should I just give in and go to the hospital?” I was literally dreaming of drugs, making the pain stop.
But as I visualized going to the hospital, it didn’t feel right. I saw fluorescent lights and IVs and it just felt all wrong to me.
I felt the mental battle escalating- I knew that I didn’t REALLY want to go to the hospital. But I was dreaming of doing SOMETHING, ANYTHING, to make this labor easier.
I remember all the birth stories and podcasts I had listened to saying that when it gets almost unbearable, that is usually when you are almost “there.” I knew I could stick it out a little longer. And further, I didn’t want to slow things down with the process of getting to the hospital and getting settled.
I got Matt to call Amy at 11:30pm to ask for ANY help. I honestly don’t remember what she said. It was helpful to hear her angel voice, unfortunately, there was very little practical advice she could offer - she encouraged as much rest as possible and said said to call her when we wanted her to come back.
I remembered a friend telling me a while back that she squeezed a comb in labor to help distract from the sensation of the contractions. That made sense to me, after all I’d learned in PT school about different nerve-fiber types. Gate-control theory. Of course!
I don’t think the un-opened plastic baby comb my sister-in-law gave us is the type of comb you’d typically want in labor- I couldn’t squeeze it hard enough to not break it, as it stood at that point. Nevertheless, I squeezed it for the rest of the night through contractions. Did it help? Not really… but I think it helped me mentally to have SOME sense of distraction. That comb was my friend, and now, it goes down with the toilet as something I never want to see again.
(I’m not kidding when I say I would see that comb the first few weeks around the house and have flashbacks to this dark, difficult night and the day that followed)
I attempted to get more rest, but it became increasingly difficult to do so. The double ramp-up, as intense as I thought it could get, continued to intensify.
Matt was keeping track of contractions so I could just sleep when I could, thinking we were close and would need to head to the birth center sometime in the next few hours.
Between 11:30 and 3am or so, I was having contractions about every 3-4 minutes. All of them were following that double-ramp up pattern, intensifying after they reached the first peak, unbearable around 60 seconds, then easing off for 15-20 seconds.
Some of them were extra awful as I felt my baby move during them- that was some of the worst pain yet.
I was still having pain in between the contractions that felt like bad period cramps.
My thoughts of possibly just going to the hospital - which weren’t entirely serious but weren’t out of the realm of possibility in my mind at this point - I could talk myself out of, because I felt like I MUST be getting closer with how much things had ramped up. I also very much was not interested in walking the block and a half to our car through the treacherous sidewalks bestowed on us by NOLA Roadwork.
My contractions were 3 minutes apart and VERY strong. Surely I was getting closer. So I thought to myself that I could make it a few more hours.
We’d be heading to the birth center soon.
I could make it through this night into the morning.
Miracle sleep
Nevertheless, between 11:30 and 3:30, I miraculously was able to get some semblance of sleep while sleeping in 2 minute stints at a time and getting up to pee every hour or so, repeating that whole painstaking process of repositioning, shivering, and getting settled again.
Somehow I was so tired I really did fall asleep in between each contraction, waking up again with the next. Holding Matt’s hand.
Every time a contraction came, I put pressure on my own sacrum (PT girlie over here), trying to counternutate my sacrum and gentle pull the fascia to provide some relief. [it’s funny looking back here, because I don’t ever remember having “back labor” but I intuitively did this for pain relief.]
At 3:30am, I felt I couldn’t keep doing this - laying in bed, enduring this intensity. The positioning and repositioning and getting up to go to the toilet was just not working anymore, I couldn’t rest.
I told Matt I was ready for Amy to come and I wanted him to get a bath ready for me.
Amy came around 4am and met me in the bathroom as I was in the bath. The bath didn’t solve all my problems, but I do remember it taking the edge off just enough for me to relax.
I asked Matt to play some relaxing music for me - so he put on Iron and Wine and now I will forever remember Iron and Wine being my peaceful place during my birth. I still cry listening to “the Trapeze Swinger,” “Upwards over the Mountain,” “Time after Time,” and obviously their rendition of “Forever Young” (which is also played in the series finale of Parenthood, if you really want to just weep).
I honestly don’t remember what happened after the bath. I think I may have gone back to bed? I just remember that Amy slept on the couch for a bit, so we must have gone back into the bed.
The sun came up. We made it through the night.
Monday Morning
This part is a blur - it’s after 2 nights of little to no sleep but before my photographer arrived (although, when I saw the photos, there were several shots I had absolutely no recollection of).
Here’s what I remember:
My contractions had “slowed” again - they were about every 4-5 minutes now. We didn’t go to the birth center.
My mom and dad had stayed at a hotel Sunday night.
Mom picked up some bone broth and crackers from Whole Foods and some GF bagels to drop off.
She came over to drop them off. I initially thought I wanted her to just drop them off, say hello, and leave. I didn’t really want her to stay there. Partly (mainly?) because I didn’t really want her to see me like this.
But one thing led to another and she stayed, and I’m honestly very glad she did. I think she sensed I needed her there. But not in the way some moms do and they decide that for you. She just knew. (and would have gladly left if I asked her to).
That morning I tried walking outside onto the porch for a minute, supporting myself on the banister. Walking was unbelievably difficult at this point.
I got on my ball and did hip circles. Matt and I set up a pile of pillows on the couch and took 2 min naps in between contractions.
Amy was handling communications at this point - texting with Tiffany and my photographer, Angelle.
Honesty hour
Tiffany (my midwife, in case you’re getting lost with these names) came to check on me around 10:30 am. I agreed to a cervical check to see if any progress had been made, holding my breath.
This cervical check was painful, but not quite as bad as the one last night. I was 6 or 7 cm. So we had made “progress.”
However, as my contractions had backed off again. (When I say backed off, they were still coming at least every 5 mins, and were VERY strong and over a minute. But backed off relative to the night), it was unclear how much more “progress” we needed for me to actually give birth to this baby.
Tiffany said we needed to start thinking about trying to move things along faster because she didn’t want me to go another night without sleep and get too exhausted to finish the task. I agreed wholeheartedly - lack of sleep is the ultimate torture. Another dark night without sleep might kill me.
I asked what she meant by “trying to move things along,” and she said we might consider breaking my water to get the contractions to speed up and “intensify.” Longer, stronger, closer together.
Or else we would possibly need to consider going to the hospital.
The tears came again.
On the one hand, how in the hell could I endure MORE intensity after the night I just had? Even at that moment, my perception of my contractions was that they WERE exceedingly intense. How could they get more intense? I felt afraid… could I do it? How much longer could I keep going.
I was terrified of that prospect, having fought all night long to get through what I would define as “extremely intense,” 9-10/10 contractions. Even at that moment, it wasn’t like they had let up - they were just slightly farther apart and maybe an 8/10. It feels silly to put numbers on it, but that morning wasn’t a break. If anything, it was only easier because the sun was up.
“Will breaking my water hurt?”
“It could be painful.”
On the other hand, the hospital felt even less ideal. I asked Tiffany what would happen if we went to the hospital. “Pitocin, epidural probably.”
I knew the Pit would probably compound my pain and likely put my baby in distress, and getting an epidural might slow down the process EVEN MORE, putting a pressure on me to give birth within a time limit my body clearly didn’t agree to, meaning I might be pressured into having a C-section, or possibly NEED a C-section if my baby was put into distress from the Pitocin.
Interventions aside, the process of getting TO the hospital and triaged to labor and delivery (possibly shamed for trying to give birth without pain medication), felt like it would slow down my labor even more. Requiring more intervention, introducing more risk, and decreasing my autonomy over the process.
I didn’t want THAT. Even though I wanted the meds.
And there is a part of me that felt shame for admitting that a part of me DID want that.
I wept.
“I really don’t want to go to the hospital...”
I was in a hard spot- there weren’t really any choices that felt right. The way I saw it, there wasn’t a way out. The third option was to wait. But even though I wasn’t in a hospital with a ticking clock, I knew the timeline on my energy and stamina would run out by this evening. I couldn’t go another night, if it came to that. That felt so defeating.
And at the bottom of all of this - then there was the sense that something about ME wasn’t measuring up; my body was failing to rise to the occasion. I hadn’t made enough progress, and the progress I still needed to make would take an “intensity” that might break me.
I cried. Amy held my hand.
“I’m scared.” I said through tears.
“What are you scared of?” asked Tiffany.
“I’m afraid I won’t be able to do this. I’m scared I won’t be able to finish this.”
I now also realize that deep down, I was also afraid of what I perceived as “failure.”
But practically speaking, a decision had to be made.
Much as I wanted relief from the pain, I knew I didn’t really want to go to the hospital. But I also wasn’t sure if I could endure the pain of Tiffany breaking my water and then immediately things getting more intense. I didn’t feel physically or mentally ready to push, if that somehow happened fast.
As I look back on Sunday night and Monday morning, I grieve that the difficulty of my labor caused me to really lose sight of why I was even going through this. I could say “each contraction is getting me closer to baby” but I really felt disconnected from the fact that this was all about bringing my long-awaited baby into the world.
[As an aside, I never, not once, feared for my baby’s safety or my own. In that moment, I was only thinking about being afraid I couldn’t do it. I trusted Tiffany to tell me if the baby was in distress. She was honest with me that we were nearing a point of maternal exhaustion that would necessitate going to the hospital, and I could trust her to tell me if we were risking anything for the baby. No fear-mongering, my autonomy intact.]
Tiffany left the bedroom and brought Matt in so we could discuss. Amy stayed at my side. Soft tears crawled down my cheeks.
I didn’t want the hospital. I didn’t feel ready for an intensifying-process. It is also at this moment I realized I didn’t really want to leave the house at all. The birth center felt like a figment now. It was never going to happen. I asked Amy, “Should I just have this baby here?”
She affirmed that it might be for the best, and that there wouldn’t be any kind of medical difference. Tiffany was already coming to the house to check on me. It wouldn’t make any difference for her if we stayed here or birthed at the birth center.
That is, if this baby was ever going to be born.
The main reason I daydreamed about the Birth Center at this point was because of the huge, gorgeous bathtubs. I lusted over the idea of sinking into a huge tub of warm water.
And, honestly, it would be a BEAUTIFUL backdrop for my birth photos :)
Decision made. I would have the baby at home. It felt a little badass. In all of my discouragement, I felt satisfied, as if I knew all along this is what I wanted to happen. But it also diminished the thoughts of going to the hospital. I would have the baby here. Second decision made - we would be managing things here.
Which meant, I would likely have Tiffany break my waters. I wasn’t ready for that though. I didn’t really want that, either.
What I REALLY wanted was a break. A timeout. A way to stop time, stop everything, for 30 minutes so I could gather myself, regroup, and get in the mentality I needed to finish the task.
I knew I couldn’t have the timeout I really wanted (and obviously did not truly want that to happen and slow things down even more)
so the next best thing was, of course, the bath.
The bath that saved me
I soaked my body, my hardening belly poking out of the water. I rolled onto my side to submerge it. Damn this tiny tub.
I sunk into safety, into the 10% of respite that somehow made a magnanimous difference. Nearly 2 full days and 2 long nights into labor, 10 percent felt huge.
(This is such a silly aside, but I remember thinking in the story of Noah’s Ark from the Bible, that it was grammatically superfluous to say “40 days and 40 nights.” But writing this story, I get it. Getting through multiple days of labor felt hard, but sleepless nights are always darker, harder, longer. I felt this so much of the early postpartum days too, praying for the sun to rise. 2 days and 2 nights. I knew there couldn’t be, wouldn’t be, a third.)
When I look back on this bath, I think of it as a turning point. Postpartum, I processed these memories in a bath of Eucalyptus epsom salts, Iron and wine playing on my phone, and a cheap essential oil blend from whole foods that smelled like orange and mint.
Iron and wine played from my phone. The smell of some kind of orange and mint essential oil blend from Whole Foods and Eucalyptus Epsom salts.
The song, “Forever young,” covered by Iron and Wine and Rhiannon Giddons, will forever be my “birth song,” even though I never actually made a playlist. Somehow Matt knew what I needed to listen to.
Amy sitting on the toilet next to me. Just being there. Turning the faucet on and off to get the temperature right. I don’t remember her saying anything, just her presence.
I’m not sure how long I stayed in there. But after the bath, I felt a bit of a mental boost. I was exhausted, I was in so much pain, but I felt calm. It was just enough to change things for me.
I could do this. It was around noon. I was going to let Tiffany break my bag of waters, and things would move quickly from there, God-willing. I was going to have this baby. It was going to be over soon. I could keep going.
