An Amazing Nightmare
Warning: The following details birth, discusses the human body and birth process, and uses phrases like “lady bits” and “holy shirt.” If you feel like birth stories are TMI, this is not the read for you.
“Pack your bags, Brittany.” Dr. Dickerson said with a quiet chuckle.
He didn’t claim to have a magic eight ball, but I was 2 cm dilated, 75% effaced, and baby was already positioned low in my pelvis. Despite it being December 22 with a due date of January 11th, it looked like we could have a Christmas baby. Or a New Year baby. Or, worst of all, a baby the weekend of my sweet sister-in-law’s wedding.
When we found out about this pregnancy back in May, our first calculation was, of course, to see the due date. As a consummate planner, I looked at January 11th as a goal, not a suggestion. The minefield of events leading up to the due date left me little choice: hold that baby in.
We’d talked a lot about the psychology of birth, and I felt reasonably confident that if I didn’t finish packing my bags completely and maybe left a few boxes from our late November move unpacked… and maybe if I left a few things undone at work (not big things… just big enough things that psychologically I felt not super great about leaving them undone…) I could will this baby to stay in.
Dr. Dickerson and my husband, Brent, however, suggested I instead go home, pack, and mentally prepare for what seemed to be an early impending birthday celebration. My mucus plug had already come out on December 19th, although a quick phone call with my doula René confirmed that a mucus plug can mean everything and it can mean nothing.
Turns out? It meant nothing.
Much to our surprise, Christmas passed without event. And then New Years. And then the wedding. We’d made it to January.
My psychology of birth stubbornness theory may have been at play. Or maybe it had nothing to do with that at all. But on the other side of January 7th, Brent and I began looking at dates (as if I could compel the baby to come out based on numerology).
And then… we made it to the due date. January 11th came and January 11th went. Nothing.
At our January 13th doctor's appointment, things took a sobering turn. What went from light and playful joking about a stubborn baby or a stubborn mom or numerology shifted when Dr. Dickerson came in the room:
“We’ve got a healthy baby. That’s the good news. There is one caveat, though: fluid levels are a little low.”
We then discussed what that means, which I will now do a poor job of explaining. You’re welcome:
As fluid levels drop, it becomes less safe in the mama for baby. Here’s what the internet says, which is not what Dr. Dickerson said, but let’s say it’s close enough:
Standard of practice in the U.S. is to induce labor at term if a mother has low amniotic fluid in an otherwise healthy pregnancy.
Ample fluid levels also help cushion the baby's head as baby turns through the pelvis, while also cushioning the umbilical cord. Fluid is protective so that during labor there is less incidence of the baby's umbilical cord getting compressed causing fetal distress.
Induction is less than ideal for attempting a VBAC (vaginal birth after cesarean), which I very much wanted to attempt. Again, I’m going to do a poor job with medical explanations, but induction means you’re given pitocin to jumpstart your body going into labor. It can make for a longer labor and create stronger contractions that put more strain on your uterus. And the whole reason most doctors aren’t proponents of VBACs is because of uterine rupture, which would be catastrophic for both mother and baby in birth.
After weighing all our options, we decided to schedule an induction for Wednesday, January 18th. Dr. Dickerson felt confident I was an excellent candidate for a VBAC and induction, if necessary.
Baby was riding low and my cervix was soft. Not to brag, but he said I had a model cervix he would give to every pregnant woman if he could.
With an eviction date set in stone, I went home and started my own induction work. I had Saturday, Sunday, Monday, and Tuesday to try and get my body going on its own. And try I did.
I decided to simply take it easy on Saturday and Sunday. And by take it easy, I mean we hung curtains in the living room, went for daily walks, finished up the baby nursery, and essentially “nested” all weekend long. I also added in…
✓ Red raspberry leaf tea
✓ Induction meditations
✓ Eating dates dates dates
Then on Monday, I awoke with an intention: Try in earnest to induce labor on our own.
I started the day with two back to back induction meditations. I did an induction yoga class. I bounced on a ball while watching Emily in Paris, pumping for 20 minutes on, 20 minutes off, and then an hour break. Repeat. I talked to the baby about maybe considering coming out on their own. I packed my birth bag fully, toiletries and all. I finalized a few things at work. And then Brent and I took our daily walk with Finn, our 19 month old, and my in-laws joined for the journey as they happened to be visiting.
On the walk, I started feeling stronger than normal contractions. I’d been feeling these contractions on and off for the past few weeks, but they hadn’t produced a baby yet, so I really didn’t think that much of it. This kind of contraction is stronger than a Braxton Hicks contraction. It’ll make your breathing a little more difficult and your ears meet your shoulders. Nothing I hadn’t felt before, so I didn’t put too much stock in it. I’d gotten used to what we jokingly called my “attention seeking, look at me I’m pregnant and having contractions but not going to have a baby” contractions.
Then I put Finn to bed, which always includes nursing. As I laid him down in his crib, I felt what I assumed was my water break. It was not like the movies. There was no dramatic gush. Just a soft, slow drizzle.
I headed straight to the toilet and texted both my husband and my doula, René:
“I think my water just broke?”
I Googled it while I waited. The light drizzle continued as I sat there analyzing the situation.
I texted my mom and sister.
Then René called and confirmed: it did in fact sound like my water had broken. Which, much like a mucus plug, can mean everything and it can mean nothing.
Turns out? It meant everything.
Over the next few hours, my contractions grew stronger but not worthy of a hospital visit. They were anywhere between 7-10 minutes apart and lasting about 60 seconds each. We were watching Dragon Prince (listen, don’t sleep on this on Netflix—it’s a delight) as I laid on an off brand sham wow towel to catch any further drizzle.
At around 9 pm, I hopped on the phone with René before she hit the hay. I’d heard of labor progressing really quickly, and I was nervous for a driveway baby. I’d also heard of labor simply… stopping. She encouraged me to go to bed and get as much sleep as I could. We’d check in at around 6 or 7 in the morning.
And so… to bed I went. I watched every hour pass as contractions grew in intensity. I slept on and off. I dreamt about contractions. They got stronger and more painful through the night.
At 6 am, I got up, braided my hair, packed up for my parents to take Finn, and tried to be productive in between contractions passing in waves every 6-10 minutes. These contractions were now giving me what Brent calls “labor face.” He took some pictures of my labor face. It’s not super pretty. You know how some girls are beautiful when they cry? Well, I’m not. My face gets all red and puffy and my jaw sinks into my neck and honestly? Labor face is pretty much the same.
I sent René a quick text as I ate my oatmeal.
Okay! Made it through the night. All packed and ready to go. I’d say the contractions are much more intense now. 😆😆
Ranging between 6 min and 10 min apart right now
She gave me a call and let me know she’d sent Dr. Dickerson my text. He was pre admitting us and we should head to the hospital asap. I called my parents. They came and grabbed Finn.
We got in the car and drove the short drive to the hospital.
Brent grabbed a video of labor face. Thanks, Brent.
The next hour or so was a blur of paperwork and stubbornly walking up to my room—rather than taking a wheelchair—and 6 blown attempts by several lovely nurses to get an IV line into my thin, tend to roll away, difficult to thread veins.
And then the party truly began.
The labor and delivery nurse I was given by the universe I would hereby like to nominate for sainthood. Kristen was a blessing.
She asked me if I would like my cervix checked to see where we were. We agreed it would be good to know where we were starting, and a quick exam revealed I’d made great progress. We were already at 6.5 cm. We could easily have a baby before lunch!
(Spoiler: we did not have a baby by lunch.)
What followed was everything I expected labor to be. And also… nothing at all like I expected it to be.
A brief aside to state my mindset going into labor:
My first birth went nothing at all like I’d planned (read in full here—in short my son flipped to breech and I had a c-section; hence the VBAC). I’d taken all the birthing classes. Done all the mental work. Was ready for a transformative birth. Which in many ways, I did get with a c-section.
I learned that birth transforms you no matter how you labor.
For this birth, I chose to have a different mindset: ultimately, I’d love to have a VBAC. I’d love to have what people had described to me as “healing VBACs.” But I wasn’t going to put so much pressure on myself. I was going to approach this with the end in sight: a healthy baby to grow our family by one more.
You know what I learned about myself? I’m not super great at not putting a ton of pressure on myself. I wobbled throughout the pregnancy, even proclaiming at one point that maybe I wouldn’t even try for a VBAC at all. Should I have a c-section and save myself the disappointment if it doesn’t work out again? Am I being selfish by pushing for a VBAC when many doctors don’t advise it?
After conversations with my husband, my doctor, and my doula, I decided to let the baby and my body decide rather than my head.
I don’t know about you, but my head often causes most of the issues in my life.
It was no different with labor.
All of this fear and uncertainty and guilt and shame from the original c-section were still rumbling around in my head, largely unmanaged and unexamined. And so of course they all came up as waves of contractions crashed through my body.
I met all the versions of myself that I have worked on or fought in my head for my entire life.
The mean voice of judgment who whispered “stop being so dramatic, it’s really not that bad” as I rocked on hands and knees, contractions sharply pressing my insides.
The little girl within who doesn’t want to do things alone and is scared of what she doesn’t understand or hasn’t yet experienced… “Help me!” I cried as I looked into my husband’s eyes and begged him to help me get it out. I can’t get it out by myself.
The determined and stubborn me who closed her eyes tight and lashed out at anyone who offered suggestions, trying to do it myself and shut out the rest of the room.
The people pleaser who felt like a failure when I proclaimed I couldn’t do it. The contractions were strong, but I felt like there was something in me stopping it from happening. I was disappointing everyone and everyone wanted to be home by lunch.
René assured me that this would ultimately end in a baby, and I really couldn’t stop it, no matter how hard I tried.
At around noon (I’m really not sure of times because… labor is a timeless state), after they’d already rolled the baby warmer into the room, certain baby would have arrived before lunch, I stated firmly that I did not know what to do. I did not know how to have a baby.
I was laboring on the toilet in a dim room with electric candles flickering, frustrated and disgusted with myself. The contractions were so strong, but I just couldn’t make progress. Why wasn’t it happening? What was I doing wrong?
René encouraged my husband to read the poem I’d written to myself aloud:
Grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change,
The courage to change the things I can,
And the wisdom to know the difference.
Thank you for the gift of new life.
Grant me the strength and endurance I need to keep going during labor.
Bring peace to my mind and my heart as I journey through childbirth.
Help me to find comfort and rest.
May I trust my body to do what it already knows.
May I be filled with joy as a new life enters the world.
May I rely on grace, compassion, and love to help me.
I listened. And I nodded. And I decided to try compassion for myself.
Kristen checked my progress again. I was almost fully dilated. But it also appeared that only my lower water bag had broken, and the upper water bag was blocking my cervix and creating a pressure vacuum that I couldn’t work baby through. They called Dr. Bader (on call for Dr. Dickerson—I only seem to birth on Tuesdays, Dr. Dickerson’s day off) and confirmed that breaking the water bag would do the trick. Once that bag was broken, I’d be able to push baby out.
They told me that very thing, and I had a complete and total breakdown. Full racking sobs. I was scared. I wasn’t ready to push. It was really REALLY hard. I was pretty sure I couldn’t do it and I’d stay pregnant forever.
I needed a break. I couldn’t eat and I couldn't drink, so René invited me to lay on my side in bed with a peanut ball and let the contractions come. No pressure to push. No pressure at all. Just rest. She reminded me that the more I said, “I can’t,” the more I would make that true.
It was up to me to say that I can.
Brent force fed me two honey sticks and Kristen hooked me up to an IV line to hydrate me. Back labor had begun, so we strapped on the TENS unit and I laid there for an hour and a half. The TENS unit cycled between sessions. I switched from my left side to my right side. Everyone took a lunch break. I laid there with what felt like nothing. Laid bare. My feet were cold. The contractions took me wave after wave, and I was a passenger to their strength.
And then all of a sudden I told Brent it was time. I was ready. My body had done the work while I rested my mind. It was time.
I remember them calling the time I began what I suppose they call active labor: about 2:15 pm. They told me 1 or 2 pushes and I could have a baby. We tried hands and knees, but I got frustrated. It didn’t feel right. I couldn’t push it out. They suggested I try on my back with the push bar. It felt close but no cigar. So they suggested I try grabbing my legs and pulling them towards me—laying on my back, a position I’d never even considered for birth.
I pushed for two hours. A state of timelessness and pure… rawness.
Exist in a room with seven people you’ve just met for the first time, legs spread wide, labor faced and pantless and… well, you meet a whole different version of yourself.
At one point I remember Kristen staring deep into what felt like my soul. Pretty sure it was on full display anyway, along with my lady bits. Everything else faded as she said to me:
Brittany, you can do this. I have told many moms that they should get an epidural and I am not telling you that. You can do this. You want to do this.
Quick disclaimer: I do not have an opinion of what other moms do at birth other than whatever they darn well please. Epidural? Do you. Unmedicated? Do you. Scheduled induction? Do you. Scheduled c-section? Do you. I’m so grateful for modern medicine. Without epidurals and c-sections, it’s very likely both Finn and I would not be walking this mortal coil. But Kristen knew how much I personally wanted an unmedicated birth and she supported that plain and simple. I will forever be grateful.
I nodded. She was right. I could do this.
I’d tried begging. I’d tried pleading. I’d bartered, I’d gotten frustrated, I’d denied, but what I hadn’t really done yet was commit. Commit to the plan. Commit to myself.
And so I did. I dug in. I met a version of myself I’d never met before. She was not nice. She yelled at people when they told her things she did not want to do. She had very strong boundaries. She was more Gollum than Smeagol. She was on a mission to get this baby out. (She also did not find it funny when Brent began singing “happy birthday” as Rex began to crown.)
At some point, amidst the chaos of Dr. Baden entering with the delivery team (replete with tables of scary looking instruments), they’d rolled a mirror up to the end of my bed so I could see my lady bits displayed in all their glory. I decided to watch the baby come out, and thank god… because honestly I don’t know that I would have gotten it out without that mirror.
“Look Brittany! Do you see the head???” Dr. Bader pointing at the TINIEST DIME SIZED HOLE IMAGINABLE.
Listen, I’ve seen birth on film, but when it’s your own body and you see a human head that needs to fit through a peephole… your peephole… it’s scary as hell.
I pushed for over two hours, each contraction feeling weaker than the last, that baby’s head beginning to emerge and then, much to my dismay, receding back.
They kept telling me I could do it. I felt the collective force of every single person in that room pushing with me. Especially Brent, who helped me lift my head and shoulders and contract forward with each contraction—pushing… pushing… pushing.
Every contraction the promise of “one more, Brittany. One more!” It wasn’t one more until it was. And once again, it’s because I decided I was DONE. I was not letting one more contraction go to waste.
I watched as that baby head was almost fully out, and I panicked as I felt the current contraction washing away. Take another deep breath and PUUUUUSH Kristen directed.
And I did. I pushed with everything I had and out flooped a baby. “HOLY SHIRT” I blurted. (Except I did not say shirt.)
There he was. Little Rex.
I didn’t get to see Finn come out of me. I know rationally that he did… but to actually SEE Rex emerge was mind blowing. To see him and know him and know he came from within. Every single thing washed away. As suddenly as the pain had arrived, it melted away. They handed Rex to me, and I was able to hold him immediately; something a c-section did not afford with the fog of the epidural and the awkwardness of my arms strapped down.
As they tended to my placenta and stitched me up and did what they needed to do, I snuggled that baby. Rex.
I kissed my husband. I thanked my nurse and my doulas.
We had done it.
In my twenties, I used to always say, “I’m living the dream! Sometimes it’s a nightmare, but at least it’s a dream.”
I have to say that a VBAC was exactly that. It was a true dream come true. I am beyond grateful that I got to experience this. There were a million inflection points and at any one of them, infinite things could have happened to prevent a successful VBAC. I’m not going to pretend that I am special or blessed or that I have been rewarded for any particular good deed. It just all worked out, for whatever chaotic reason, and for that, I am so grateful.
This VBAC allowed me to live my dream, and it was the most amazing nightmare.
Special thanks and acknowledgement to every single person who helped me have a successful VBAC. The truth is, I am pretty angry at how our medical system treats pregnant people. We are not prepared for birth unless we have somehow been introduced to the truth:
Our bodies are made to birth. With proper preventative prenatal care and education, we can do our best to prepare for birth to reduce medical intervention.
I am not opposed to intervention, but I am opposed to condoned ignorance, which I feel our “traditional” national birthing system supports.
I am grateful for The Birth Center of Baton Rouge and their commitment to help the women in Baton Rouge to achieve their best birth. The work I did with them in my first pregnancy to understand what was happening to my body as we prepared to birth undoubtedly influenced my experience with this VBAC.
I cannot thank René Johnson of Birth Help enough for her support through both of my pregnancies and births. She listened, guided, and lifted me in ways a doctor or nurse or husband cannot. And her birthing prep classes taught me so much that I know existed somewhere deep in my brain, even if I didn’t recall it all in the reality of labor. I know it was within me, helping me. And her doula in training, Ashton, who I was also lucky to have supporting this birth.
Dr. Lauren Hymel, of Hymel Sports and Wellness Center, who helped to keep baby and mama comfortable during pregnancy with weekly chiropractic adjustments — fairly confident the reason baby was so solidly head down and didn’t get too painful in my pelvis is because of her attention for the last three months of my pregnancy.
Amber Anderson and her team at Restoration Health Collective who taught me so much about my pelvic floor and how to have a baby. I am now obsessed with pelvic floors and will be happy to talk to you about them for hours on end.
The staff at Woman’s Hospital who gave me a beautiful, healing VBAC. Nurses Kristen and Danielle. Dr. Bader, on call for Dr. Dickerson, who was a grounding, calming presence across the finish line.
And of course, Dr. Dickerson. For stewarding this VBAC, talking with me openly, honestly, and respectfully at every appointment. For making this dream of mine come true.
