Where was I? I think I was in labor at the Chinese restaurant on Friday, March 11th, telling my lawyer to fuck himself. So my water broke in my kitchen on Thursday night, and I slept okay that night. I was excited, because I knew the trial of carrying my donkey-kicking potential-anti-Christ was about to come to an end.

The next night, on Friday, I was out to dinner with my family. I came home and figured that she would come in the middle of the night. I was glad it was the weekend, in case I got loud, since this building is rife with boom-boom music on Friday nights. I had also figured that she would come the night before, after my water broke, but my labor kept stopping and starting. My midwife, who had delivered Franny, kept calling. “Are you okay? How far apart are your contractions?” I had to tell her that I had slept through the night again, even though I was “locked and loaded,” as my sister put it. My companion kept walking with me and my contractions would drop to five-minute intervals, and then to twenty and I would fall asleep again.

My friends and family, well-intentioned and caring, kept calling to see if I had had the baby yet. A second baby shouldn’t take so long. I had to leave my phone on so I could take calls from my midwife. Finally I had to leave a message on my voicemail: “Yes, I’m still in labor, and I promise I will call you when she’s here.” I developed an unpleasant association with my cell phone ringtone, which I had had for over a year, and pain. Between my friends, family, and midwife calling constantly, I had to change it after I had Strudel because it made me cringe. That ringtone still makes me cringe if I hear it on someone else’s phone.

On Saturday morning, I had had enough. I decided this kid was coming out. My mother took Franny away that morning to be bribed with a giant plushy purple “unitorn” and new clothes. Franny felt abandoned, but I couldn’t deal with her in this two-bedroom apartment. I continued to walk and my midwife and her student came mid-morning. I dozed on my side on the futon. The rest of the day was a blur of vomiting and my midwife whispering occasionally with her student. Through my labor haze I could tell that things weren’t going quite right. I remember Saturday afternoon, after I had been in labor for about forty-four hours, my midwife suggested that I should start walking up and down the fire stairs that open up to the divided highway outside of our building. I’m not going to lie; I was on suicide watch at this point. “You could just brain me and cut the baby out,” I told my companion quietly. “Go get a large rock.” He just looked at me as he walked me up and down the stairs. I could see he was tired, too.

The inside of my body hurt from having contractions for a couple of days. That’s a weird feeling, having an entire body cavity become sore and painful like that. Strudel continued to kick and butt my pelvic floor. I wanted to tear my abdomen off. My midwife laid it down for me. “We can only let you go for forty-eight hours, and then you have to be assessed at the hospital for a potential c-section. You can talk to your companion and decide what you want to do.”

After a short discussion, I decided I wanted to go to the hospital early. “I can’t have this pain any more. I can’t take it.” Little did I know that things would get much worse, in a way. Things got different, anyway. The moment I got into the car, I was in uncharted territory. I had Franny at home, without drugs, and now I was heading into the unknown.

We have a newer Honda that has the nicest ride of any car I’ve ever owned. I made my way down to the car, put the seat back, and buckled myself in. I have more than made the point that my companion is an Oregon grandma driver, and I know he drove carefully all the way to the hospital on the other side of town, but that was the point when the pain was definitely the worst. Each bump was excruciating, and in Seattle the roads have gone down the tubes in the past few years, so there are a lot of bumps.

The apex (or nadir) of the pain was in Capitol Hill, right down the street from the hospital. It was late afternoon and rush hour was picking up, and a group of assmittens jumped out into a crosswalk. My companion had to slam on the brakes and the belt cut into my abdomen and that was it, I thought I was going to die from the pain. My contractions exploded during the car ride, making me wish that I had gone for a ride hours before.

Finally, we got to the hospital, where they had been warned I was coming and that I was a “failed” homebirth. I think they were expecting someone me to be kind of insane and angry, because I had to come into a hospital, and that I would be clamoring to sacrifice a goat, burn incense, and then eat the placenta. I was glad to be there at this point, because I knew they could cut this thing out of me if they had to, and the pain would stop. The head nurse apologized to me, saying something like, “I know this isn’t your first choice and that you don’t want to be here.” I remember just looking at her, because understanding English wasn’t really my strong suit at this point. I stripped out of my clothes and changed into the ugly hospital gowns, stopping every thirty seconds to drop to my knees, cry, and get through a contraction.

I could see that I was in a birthing suite with a wooden floor. It looked pretty nice for a hospital room and they were able to keep the lights low. The RN on duty was matter-of-fact and low-key, something I did not truly appreciate until she went off duty and the night nurse replaced her, who was chipper to the point of brain damage.

Two major things happened when I got gowned up. I was so tired that I climbed into bed on my side and laid there like a groany lump. They put an IV on me, which was wonderful. I wanted to make out with my IV, or at least take it home with me. Very quickly I got rehydrated and felt less fuzzy-headed. Then, the hospital’s midwife took over because my midwife lost her super powers once she crossed the borders of the hospital. I was sad that she lost her authority, but I was glad to have a fresh set of eyes. The hospital midwife looked under the hood and determined that my amniotic sac was ruptured only somewhere below Strudel’s neck. Strudel was not able to come down and butt her head against my cervix and help it to open beyond six centimeters, because there was a bubble of fluid holding her back below her head.

“Aha,” she said, and whipped out something that looked like a plastic knitting needle. She ruptured the bag and there was a fresh gush of amniotic fluid, partially aided by the IV. “This happened with one of my boys,” the midwife said, smiling at me. “That should help a lot.” Amniotic fluid came in torrents whenever I stood after that.

I was exhausted. Before we left for the hospital, I made the decision that it would be okay if I had drugs once I got there. I needed something to shut off the spazzy donkey-kicked part of my body for a while. The hospital midwife laid down the options for me: epidural or a pain-relieving drug, and if things progressed for much longer I would have a c-section. I wasn’t worried about a c-section at that point, because my contractions had been coming at a breakneck pace since the car ride from hell. An epidural was sounding pretty good though. “We’ll send for the anesthesiologist,” said one of the nurses. Anesthesiologist? That sounded kind of serious, didn’t it? Oh, well. Here comes another…AAAAYAAAGH!!!!!

Lucky for me, my home midwife, who cared about me a great deal, came into my blurry, pain-filled bubble and snapped me out of my gleeful consent-form signing. “If you’re going to have an epidural, you should get up and pee now, because they’re going to CATHETERIZE you,” she said into my ear. For some reason, that was the deal breaker. I was very nonchalant about the possibility of having a needle jammed into my spine. (“My spine? What do I use that for anyway? Really.”) But the idea of a catheter gave me the absolute wiggens.

“IchangedmymindIdon’twantanepidural TEAR UP THE FORM!” I said. I just couldn’t do that to poor Miss Urethra. “Can I still have the drugs, though?”

They gave me a half-dose of some kind of opiate, though my IV. The next hour was a blur, especially after getting THE DRUGS. The drugs were the most marvelous thing that had ever happened to me at that point, ever. My head floated like it was on a string. I launched into a rambling story to my home midwife about how I accidentally smoked some opium in high school and it was awesome, just like this, and hey, did everyone totally see how awesome the moonrise looked and…something seemed to be happening below my boobs but damned if I cared. I made my companion go eat a sandwich and I think he felt better after that.

My buzz was slightly harshed by the midwife; she made me get up then and sit on the toilet. Before having children, I never thought the toilet could play such a huge part in childbirth, but it really can. I got to bring my BFF, IV, though, so all was well, if a little awkward. They wanted me to pee one more time and to let gravity help things along. I have been told that since people are used to relaxing on the toilet, that feeling can kick in and help labor progress.

After I was a little more dilated, they helped me move back to the bed, where I got onto my hands and knees. “Can I have some more drugs now?” I asked, which was met with laughter. “No,” my midwife said, “you are almost ready to push.” I had been in labor for forty-seven hours, so long that I had forgotten what I was there for.

The chill, matter-of-fact day shift nurse disappeared and was replaced by the night nurse. There were absolute swarms of people in the room, all women except for my companion. The lights continued to stay low and someone put a blanket over my butt, which was up in the air, making me feel like a baboon.

I had been pretty reserved up until this point. My midwife has told me after Franny that I was the most polite laborer she had ever encountered (“PLEASE stop touching me.”) and I was usually more of a groaner. But the baboon comparison became pretty apt, because when it was time to push I went feral. Something happened that was completely unexpected: I screamed. At the top of my lungs, like crazy batshit horror-movie-type screaming. I was so tired and at the end of my rope it was all I could do. I don’t know how long I screamed for, but it made me feel better, even though screaming actually hurt worse than pushing. My lungs, throat, and head hurt as the screams ripped out of me, but it made my back end feel better. My companion tells me my screams ricocheted throughout the labor ward; woe on the newly-arrived first-time mothers. I had a half-formed worry that I would scream and push so hard she would really rocket out and fly across the room, but I figured someone would catch her.

Strudel came without any tearing and in the usual gush of blood and ick. We could see right way that she was normal and sort of lobster-colored, especially when she started screaming. I don’t remember very well, but my companion tells me I turned around to see her so quickly he was amazed, and that I yelled, “My baby! My baby!” like a big dope and grabbed her. I do remember getting tangled up in the various tubes and wires and even in her umbilical cord, because of my hurry.

One more weird thing happened. When the placenta followed, it was encapsulated in an intact sac of fluid with the umbilical cord running though the sac and into the placenta. The staff oohed and aahed over it, because placentas aren’t supposed to be in their own fluid-filled bubble, and then my midwife popped it to make sure the placenta was intact, which it was.

As soon as Strudel appeared, I was ready to head home. They assumed we were spending the night. No way. Of course, they had to do 4 million tests and do the horrible “patient education,” even if you aren’t a first-timer. What, you mean you have to bathe your baby sometimes? And you have to keep them warm? And feed them? I almost died, waiting through Nurse Chipper’s endless talking. At least she bathed Strudel for me. I knew I would have plenty of chance to do it later, so I was glad to surrender Strudel so that I could take a shower. And I ate about 17 free sandwiches that they keep in a fridge on the ward of mothers and labor attendants.

Strudel came at 8 o’clock, but we had to wait until midnight for the children’s ward pediatrician to come and examine her so we could be released. Normally, newborns who came after the day shift have to wait until morning rounds to get the pediatricians okay. They made an exception for us, because they knew we were those screaming homebirth freaks.

We had one last hassle at midnight-thirty. When you have a hospital birth, you have to bring in the infant seat and show that you know how to strap the baby into it. Once the baby’s strapped in, it doesn’t matter what happens to the car seat. You could send the baby home in the car seat via cannon at this point, or put it in a wagon pulled by a meth-fueled badger–it’s okay because the nurse has ticked off “car seat education” on her form.

Then we got to stroll out. “I can’t believe you are walking out of here,” said the night nurse. “I could run out of here,” I replied. I felt great, all things considered. We cheerily toodle-looed at the maternity ward desk staff, who had just heard me screaming like a banshee a few hours before. So long, suckers!

But we didn’t care about their stares–because it was over. Strudel was normal, if a little howly. No more labor pains, and no more wondering what a de-twinned baby would be like. She was here. My companion did marvelously. He was perfect: not too much help or too little presence. And now we have a thrillingly “boring,” normal baby who’s on the verge of crawling.

Since having Strudel, I have spent a lot of time thinking about how my birth went. In this country, where homebirth is rare (especially compared to other parts of the world) it is controversial within the culture at large to have a baby at home without any medical interventions. There is a lot of pressure on midwives to get births exactly right, and when babies or mothers are injured or suffer unnecessary pain, there is usually outrage. I understand this reaction, but I have never felt upset that it did not occur to my midwife that she could have used the “knitting needle” intervention. It is likely that if my “forebag” would have been broken earlier I would have had Strudel much sooner, and without being exhausted. I probably would have stayed home and would have not taken drugs. After having two children, I feel like labor is something you can prepare for, but not plan. I am content with the way things turned out and don’t feel like there was a “failure.”

Franny’s birth, part of a series.

Click on category Strudel to read her story from the beginning.