Josiah's Birth

“Let us run with endurance the race that is set before us, looking to Jesus, the founder and perfecter of our faith, who for the joy that was set before him endured the cross, despising the shame, and is seated at the right hand of the throne of God.” – Hebrews 12:1

Warning: This is very long and pretty detailed. I wrote it more for my memory's sake than anything else.

Four weeks ago today I endured and moaned and, yes, even yelled through some of the worst pain of my life. (I’m glad only my mom, Jeremy, my midwife, and a crowd of nurses were there to witness that.) Each Wednesday (and lots of times in between) since April 27^th I’ve marveled at how God created women’s bodies to endure such intense trauma and change and then heal so quickly. A week after Josiah’s birth I said to Jeremy, “It’s amazing to me that I can feel this good just a week after having a baby!” After the never-ending hours of aching waves of contractions, sometimes breaking one on top of the other, and after an eternal hour of what seemed like the impossible—pushing out the baby—I actually came out on the other side alive and quickly getting well! Today I look at Josiah and find it hard to believe he was inside me four weeks ago. Other than the extra skin around my midsection and the stretch marks, my body feels almost like its old self.

I’m fascinated by God’s design of the body with its efficiency to heal itself and return to normal. For one thing, that uterus that stretched and bulged and ballooned for nine months clamps down so quickly—what a muscle! Though I may still look a little pregnant from extra weight, the uterus is its normal, fist-sized self again—inconspicuous after its months of belly glory.

But let me backtrack a bit—back to when the belly was still big. On Tuesday, April 26^th, I was six days past my due date. After teaching my morning classes for The Potter’s School (Fantasy Lit and Tolkien), I hopped in (or waddled to and plopped in J) the car with my mom to drive down to Chandler for another appointment and a non-stress test. I hoped this time to hear I was dilated more than one centimeter. I didn’t expect to hear that I needed to be induced.

Induction had long been one of my fears as I anticipated having this baby. I wanted to give birth naturally, without interventions or medication. Jeremy and I wrote up a birth plan spelling out our intent to refuse pretty much everything that wasn’t medically necessary. (But I was also afraid my flesh might be weak, whatever my head decided. Of course, I had heard the horror stories! People seem to relish telling first-time expectant moms about 48-hour labors and fourth-degree tears.)

Anyway, I wanted my labor and delivery to follow my plan—to be under my control. But a less reactive strip on the non-stress test (the baby’s heart rate wasn’t as variable as they would like, and he wasn’t as active as they would like to see either) and a couple concerning decelerations in his heart rate worried the midwife and OB. They wanted to pack me off to the hospital right away to start the induction process, but they did allow me to go home to pick up Jeremy and gather my things first.

I was scared and confused and disappointed. I didn’t want to be induced; I heard pitocin made it really hard to labor without pain meds. But I was obviously worried about the baby, too. And I didn’t know how much of my midwife and OB’s concern stemmed from true, immediate danger to the baby or the medical establishment covering their backs. Ultimately, though, I think God wanted to pry my fingers from my clinging to control—from my “need” to have the perfect birth my way.

So at home I cried a bit, ate some food (the last real meal till the next day!), finished packing, took care of school details, and called family and friends to ask them to pray. We arrived at the hospital with a full trunk of stuff, checked in, and went on back to labor and delivery. The nurses put me on the fetal monitor for another non-stress test—this time for over an hour. They also explained the plan: they wanted to give me three doses of prostaglandin gel that night to prep my body for induction with pitocin the next morning. Late afternoon and evening dragged with waiting and agonized decision-making. Finally, we decided to go ahead with the prostaglandins and pray that would kickstart my labor. The nurses told us maybe ten percent of women actually went into labor after administration of prostaglandins. They were pretty sure I would need pitocin come morning.

The three prostaglandin doses took about six hours total to complete. I had to be on the monitor an hour after each and then was allowed to walk for about 40 minutes before getting back on the monitor before the next one. We plodded around the hospital parking lot in the blessed times I was free from the monitor. Sometime between the second and third prostaglandin dose, my contractions picked up. Till now I only had Braxton-Hicks contractions—some stronger than others, but none that hurt. At that point—around 11 p.m. or midnight—the contractions started hurting. Soon after I first noticed the pain, I was definitely in active labor.

My body may have started labor on its own that night if we hadn’t gone to the hospital. Apparently I was ready! With the prostaglandins to speed things up, I never really experienced the “easy” part of early labor. Instead, I plunged right into pretty intense contractions. Jeremy and my mom were an indispensible help as I struggled through each contraction. They encouraged me, forced me to drink water, helped me change positions, and talked me through relaxation techniques. Hooked up the monitor almost continuously because of the sporadic decelerations in the baby’s heart rate, I had few options for movement and position changes. At one point I stood for almost three hours, leaning on Jeremy as he coached me through the contractions. Only once did the night nurse let me off the monitor long enough to get in the shower—what a relief that hot water was!

As the hours passed and the contractions lasted longer and gripped me harder, I had to concentrate on enduring through each one and zoned out the activity around me. Labor truly is all-consuming. I couldn’t even focus on the monitor any longer to watch the baby’s heart rate. I listened to Jeremy repeat the litany of relaxation instructions for the thousandth time and recited Hebrews 12:1 to myself: “. . . looking to Jesus . . . who for the joy set before Him endured the cross . . . .” He endured the cross. I can endure—for the joy set before me. Every fifteen minutes seemed like hours. By about 4 a.m. I was four centimeters dilated; I cried when the nurse told us because I could only think of the six more to go.

I don’t remember much other than the everlasting contractions and exhaustion of the next several hours. I dreaded every position change, every move, every check from the nurse. They all seemed to induce stronger, quicker contractions. Later I learned I narrowly escaped an IV. My mom forced fluids on me in an effort to help the baby’s heart rate enough that I wouldn’t have to get one. I remember looking up one time between contractions to see her pouring sugar packets into my apple juice—more ploys to jolt that heart rate into reactive stability. I drank more than 64 oz of apple juice and plenty more water that night.

At some point in the morning my contractions changed—they spaced apart, and I felt growing pressure. I told the midwife—who had shown up by then—that I had to push. She said I was only eight centimeters and had to wait. This was the toughest yet—fighting the overwhelming strength of the contractions that only augmented the terrible urge to push. Thankfully I progressed to nine centimeters fairly quickly (though nothing felt quick to me) and could start working with the contractions rather than against them. But pushing—once it got down to business—was even harder. The breaks between contractions gave me no real rest, because the pressure of the baby’s head kept me in continual pain. I actually wanted long contractions now: I desperately wanted the baby OUT. In that hour of pushing (another eternal hour), some moments I believed I could not physically birth this baby. It felt humanly impossible.

Good thing that with God, all things are possible! Jeremy told me my pulse went from the 60s to the 160s during some intense pushes. I gripped his hand on one side and my mom’s on the other, grunted and (yes) yelled, and strained every muscle in my body over and over again. I was frustrated with the baby for moving so slowly down the birth canal. When the midwife grabbed my hand to let me feel the head just starting to show, I was disheartened—still so far to go! Finally, he crowned. I wanted to escape the burning and pressure and pain so badly. Apparently I was so eager to be finished that, once the head came out, I pushed too hard and too quickly for Jeremy to catch the baby—the rest of him just slipped out! Unfortunately, my overly energetic push resulted in a second-degree tear. But the huge physical relief of suddenly being done was wonderful.

The nurses had given me oxygen at some points during the pushing, and I think it made me feel a bit detached. The room and the crowd (Jeremy, my mom, midwife, nurses) seemed blurry and distant. They put the baby on my chest immediately, and I heard his little cry. My mom says I said, “My baby!” and cried, too. But that sense of detachment seemed to mute my emotions. I didn’t feel overwhelmingly excited. Even though I didn’t feel the rush of delight I thought I ought to, I was glad to be done and glad to meet my baby. I loved feeling his little body against mine.

Through my labor and delivery, the Lord took away my control—over my birth plan, over my body—but also gave me what I had prayed for and wanted: a natural birth and a beautiful, healthy baby. He gave me courage and enabled me to endure “for the joy” set before me. Josiah’s birth was not how I originally wished for or planned, but I’m so glad that it was one more lesson in trusting God. He is in control even when I am not, and for that I’m thankful.