Birth

For 38 weeks I would research and literally dream about giving birth.

After the miscarriage, I wanted to redeem my pain and experience an unmedicated vaginal birth. I was ready to welcome and work through the pain.

I talked through my birth wishes with my OB.

A pelvic floor physiotherapist gave me exercises and mottos to empower me through labour.

Our doula helped us prepare for the other outcomes.

None of us would have expected, or chosen, the reality of Emilene’s entrance into the world.

Six hours

Sunday morning I woke up at 2 am with an incredible back ache.

Throughout my entire pregnancy my hips or back were always hurting – I thought nothing of it. I went to the bathroom, paced around our bedroom, and then tried to climb back into bed.

One hour later I woke up, again with sharp, nearly overwhelming, back pain. Again, I simply accepted what I thought would be my plight for the final three weeks of my pregnancy.

I was sure I was going days and days passed my due date of September 9. There was no way this baby was coming early.

Sitting up had given me some relief one week prior and I made a backrest of pillows to help me sleep again. I made it to 5 am before the back, and now also abdominal pain, woke me up.

The pain in my lower abdomen didn’t alert me in the slightest. After all, I had been drinking carbonated water all night and bad gas is what I deserved for such a reckless choice in my pregnant condition.

More pacing, more trips to the bathroom, and more tears because I just wanted to sleep. I wanted to enjoy these final nights of sleep before our baby arrived.

Mars woke up because of my crying and offered to rub my lower back as I sat on the edge of the bed.

The back rub gave me slight relief from the pain in my back. I would think it had passed and try laying down for some more sleep. No dice. The shooting pain in my abdomen and back would return. So then, Mars, half asleep and stretching across from his side of the bed, would resume rubbing my back.

I felt a sudden shift in pressure, as if I was going to pee on the bed.

“I think I need to go to the bathroom,” I whispered to Mars as I rocked my big belly and body off the bed.

As I stood up, I felt a familiar feeling: something falling out of me.

“What is happening to me,” were the last words I could squeak out before a great gush of fluid poured out of me and onto our floor. I had a brief thought, Did my water just break? I squinted and looked down in the early morning light.

Blood. So much blood.

It had splashed up the walls, onto our once-white duvet, pooled at my feet.

I kept dripping.

“What just happened?” Mars had shot out of bed when he heard the gush.

I waddled to the bathroom, dripping, and sat on the toilet in an attempt to contain the mess as Mars called our doula.

I had seen our doula five days prior, at my baby shower, and had assured her nothing had changed in my condition. I had convinced her she should have no reason to expect a call from us anytime soon. Whoops.

With no answer on her end of the phone, Mars decided to call 911. We weren’t taking any chances. We had been here before: me bleeding and crying on the toilet, once pregnant.

“Make sure she doesn’t sit on the toilet,” explained the 911 dispatcher. Whoops.

I was now sitting in our bathtub, lightheaded and tired, as Mars was running around, half-naked, in the house gathering the supplies the dispatcher listed off: Towels, blankets, a shoelace, and a safety pin.

“What for?” Mars asked.

“Okay, now take her out of the bathtub and lay her on the floor with the blankets and if she feels the need to push…”

“I DO NOT NEED TO PUSH!”

I really didn’t. I wasn’t having contractions. I felt no urge to push anything out. The back pain had actually subsided a little. I was still just bleeding.

The two EMTs arrived 20 minutes or so after we called. They split up, one with Mars to evaluate how much blood I lost in our room, the other taking my vitals.

Did I mention I only had a sweater on? I was like Winnie the Pooh in my maternity crewneck with Le Bump written across the chest. Very classy.

I was promptly guided to the stretcher in our garage, dripping blood through my house – I’ll have to Swiffer that when we get home, I stupidly thought – and loaded up into the ambulance.

While en route to the hospital, the EMT and I thought I was maybe having contractions. I would feel some strong cramping for a minute or so every couple of minutes, but it was inconsistent and impossible to track.

I could hear the driver on the radio up front: “Are we in the ER or is she coming up?”

“Straight up to the second floor.”

Nice, I thought. I was naïvely excited about not having to wait around in the ER waiting room.

If you can’t tell by now, I was in shock and had no idea of what was happening. I was scared, no doubt, but something kept my mind from running wild with worry.

At that moment, I assumed I would be on bed rest for the next few weeks. I was convinced I was going overdue no matter what and would not be having a baby anytime soon.

We arrived at the hospital around 7:30 am, straight up to the second floor.

The elevator doors opened and I was greeted by a flurry of nurses. Geez, somebody must be having a rough time to cause all that commotion, I thought.

“We’re all ready for you.”

Me?

“Bring her into this room.” The EMTs brought me into a room full of nurses, fluttering about, with haste.

I was quickly flipped onto a bed, still dripping blood, and a Doppler ultrasound machine was revealed.

Emi’s heartbeat was quickly found!

“Hold on to that, sweetheart. That’s a strong heartbeat,” Rhonda– my favourite nurse – reassured me.

Of course it is! I just had my (predictable, always short and boring) prenatal appointment two days ago and it was there. Oh Lissi, you oblivious idiot.

Mars and our doula had just come up the second floor and could hear the heartbeat down the hall. She reassured Mars too. Everybody seemed to know something we didn’t.

“You’re having this baby today,” Rhonda informed me. Impossible.

“I have RH-negative blood, I need a shot then. Oh, and I tested positive for Group B strep, so I need that shot too.” Was I stalling?

“That’s only if you’re having a vaginal birth, dear. We don’t have time for that. Your baby needs to come out right now so you are having an emergency c-section.”

Absolutely not. The reality was too much. I lost it. I was crying, screaming even, and would not be having my baby today and not like this.

I was further informed that I would be put under anesthesia, there would be no time for any epidural/spinal or pain meds, and Mars could not be in the room.

I remember one nurse handing him a stack of scrubs and another nurse taking them out of his hands immediately after – you would almost think it was choreographed. I laugh about that memory now, but it only made me cry more back then. Mars was supposed to be there for the birth of his baby. Who else can cut the cord? Tell me the sex of our surprise baby? I had literally dreamed about him being down between my legs and announcing we had a baby girl a few months ago.

I was wide awake for the catheter though. I will spare you the details.

Surgeons and anesthesiologists came in and out of the room. They would introduce themselves, I would politely cry or stare up at the ceiling light.

The anesthesiologist said I would be intubated right after I was put to sleep and there was a danger of damaging my vocal cords temporarily or permanently. I cried more. I had always dreamed of singing with my baby and maybe now I would sound different?! I was officially out of control.

“I feel like such an idiot,” I cried.

“Honey, do not say that. Why would you say that?” Rhonda looked down at me.

I looked up at her, pathetically, tears blurring my vision, “I spent all of Thursday night making padsicles. I was supposed to have this baby vaginally. What a waste of time.”

“You were preparing for your baby, sweetie. That’s not a waste of time.”

Mars walked alongside my bed to the operating room doors. Honestly, I didn’t remember that. I just remember feeling so alone and scared, at the mercy of my body. I think he kissed me and we said our goodbyes.

I lay in the cold OR, bright lights shining down on my naked stomach. They started spreading the iodine all over me to prepare for the surgery. It dripped down towards my thighs.

“Is it supposed to sting my vulva?” I asked, thinking someone would be impressed by my correct anatomical language. No one batted an eye. I was definitely stalling.

I’ve never had surgery or had any form of anesthesia so I was really scared.

The nurse brought the doppler machine back out to check for a heartbeat. I heard roughly two beats and then silence.

“Where is my baby!?” I screamed. “What did you do?” Now I was incredibly scared.

“Just relax, my dear,” the nurse attempted to comfort me as she brought the mask to my mouth.

“Just breathe in this oxygen to help you calm down.”

“That is not oxygen! You are lying to me! I don’t want to do this. Where is my baby? I can’t do this.”

I was beyond hysterics – obviously. I was, for the last time, battling between two feelings: my self-preservation and the preservation of my baby.

“My dear, your baby needs to come out right now. Just take a few deep breaths.”

She lowered the gas mask over my mouth again as I screamed, “No I don’t want to do it yet. I’m not ready. I can’t– .”

Black.

The last thing I remember thinking before I passed out was, I am going to die on this table.

I was put under just before 8 am and Emilene Jenni-Marie Gagnon entered our world at 8:13 am.

I never heard her cry. I never saw her body physically disconnect from mine. I didn’t meet her for over an hour.

As I was sewn back together and swimming my way out of the drugged slumber, Mars held our sweet daughter on his chest The two greatest loves of my life, unbeknownst to me, had met and were deeply in love with one another too.

I met my Emi at 9:30 am that Sunday morning. Any pain or fear I felt before they rolled her into the recovery room quickly faded away. Here she was: the sweetest, softest, pinkest alien in the whole world and she was somehow mine. I would do anything for this “Squish”.

Within 6 hours, my 2 am waking to her 8 am arrival, our family went from two to three people.

Within 6 hours, my own plans of going “way over due” and really nesting were thrown out the window.

Within 6 hours, as cliché as it sounds, our whole world changed.

What happened?

Later that night, Rhonda – maybe the best nurse in the entire world?! – wiped the blood from my legs and changed my sheets.

We finally asked her what happened to me. Why all that blood? Why the urgency?

“You and your baby are a miracle.”

She explained that I had a complete placental abruption.

For those 6 hours, my sweet Emilene was without that connection to me, my oxygen, my nutrients.

The blood from the wound had pooled inside of my uterus – that explains the pain and pressure all night – and the floodgates finally opened when I got up from the bed.

Looking back, Mars and I are thankful we never knew the true severity of the situation until after the fact. This ignorance kept us in that state of shock rather than fear.

Rhonda further explained: We had come in at the perfect time. There were so many nurses around because they were all ready for a shift change. And, “for some reason,” there were two anesthesiologists “just hanging out” with a full surgical team who also “just happened to be there” on a Sunday morning.

Coincidence, great fortune, or a miracle?

Coming home

We came home Tuesday afternoon after we were given the new parent briefing and my staples ripped out. Again, I will spare you the details. Ouch.

Thankfully, my mom came as soon as she heard I was in an ambulance and was able to stay with us. Because I had convinced Mars and myself that I would go long past my due date, we were still missing baby supplies. Before Mars, Emi, and I got home she gathered everything we needed and welcomed us home with a house full of baby gear and a warm meal. New moms need their moms.

The next week or so was probably a typical first week with a newborn, while I wrapped my head around a different type of physical recovery than I had prepared for.

Mars changed diapers while my mom helped me get out of a chair and shuffle to the bathroom. Mars cuddled Emi while my mom held me as I wept and grieved for my “old life”, felt like a terrible mom for doing so, and struggled to make peace with the way I became a mom.

Emilene’s birth just felt so brutal. Our introduction to one another felt so forced, rather than the ancient, beautiful ritual I had dreamt up birth and labour to be.

For months, I had daydreamed of seeing her tiny body emerge from mine – in some way or another – and hearing her cry to be put back where she had just come from. For weeks, I still felt pregnant. I don’t think my body knew it had given birth, that we had lost the renter in our womb.

I, honestly, didn’t even feel as though I attended her birth. For weeks I didn’t feel worthy of calling myself a mom because I didn’t endure what I thought a birth should be.

As the months have passed, Emi and I have gotten to know each other more. I love her. She is mine and I am hers. I know her better than anyone – even though I never heard her first cry or felt her head as she crowned.

I carried her little body in mine for 38 weeks and 1 day. Against some tough odds, we both survived a traumatic birth. Now, she is one of my favourite people to ever live and continually reminds me that every day is a miracle.

She is our miracle.