Usually the men folk are noted for their interest in statistics, facts, and figures. Who the third baseman was for the Phillies in 1976 doesn’t interest me– or most women. However…you get a group of women together swapping labor stories, and the stats start flying. It is difficult to get a word in edgewise. We know, remember, and recount all the numbers. Fifty years later, women still remember how many hours they labored with their second child.

My husband, on the other hand, wonders what all the hubabaloo is for. So, I’m offering two birth story versions. I’m asking you to read the one that suits your gender. If you’re confused which one that is, you’re reading the wrong blog. While the women’s version is modest and abridged, I still ask that you only read the one that applies to you.

For the guys
We went to the hospital and had a baby boy. He is hardy and strong. Everyone is home and doing well. See you next post.

For the ladies
When we arrived at the hospital, the scene could only be described as a clip from a bad Chevy Chase movie. If you don’t know me in real life, you have to imagine a five foot two (with shoes on) petite lady doubled-over carrying a nine-pound baby. While I wasn’t in transition yet, I was obviously not there to fill out a job application. Never having delivered at this particular hospital, we entered through the main entrance and asked for Labor and Delivery.

Has anyone ever noticed what happens when you give a volunteer a badge and too much down time?

The women at the front desk demanded our ID’s and told us to stand in front of the camera for a picture pass. This took a few minutes, but we happily complied. Then they asked why we were here. Chuckling, my husband notes that I’m in labor.

Well.

Both of the front desk ladies picked up their phones and started dialing extensions, asking questions, arguing, hanging up, and repeating the process several times. Since this was the weekend, I was informed that I needed to check in somewhere else. Only nobody knew where that somewhere else was. Apparently, having babies on the weekend isn’t standard protocol.

Not trying to be funny, I muttered, “You do deliver babies here, don’t you?” Nobody heard me, and nobody laughed–except my husband.

First, we were sent to Outpatient Registration, which seemed odd. The folks there thought this was odd as well, so after more phone calls, we were shuffled to the Emergency Room. I’m not even kidding. An ER doctor mentioned in the hall that he thought I was having a baby. We were very glad that someone noticed, but our escort then mentioned that that was his first correct diagnosis of the day. If this was a movie and not my real life, the doctor would be Chevy Chase, but thankfully, the scene ended here.

I want to mention that we don’t live in a rural town, and this isn’t a small hospital. My husband and I kept looking at each other while I moaned and laughed, “This isn’t really happening, is it?”

After signing my life away in the emergency room, we were then escorted to the fourth floor—Labor and Delivery. Thankfully, the nurse there, who had been called already by my midwife, had my chart, stats, and the lowdown. And again, if this were a movie and not my real life, the music would turn now from cheerful to melancholy.

My heplock was hooked up (for GBS), and we walked the halls for an hour until the midwife got there. The lady next door was delivering and screaming uncontrollably. My resolve weakened, and I started to lose it. Hearing her anguish reminded me of what was in front of me. My husband talked me out of losing it too, but it would only prove to be short lived.

I began vomiting, but I knew I wasn’t in transition yet. I was not handling the contractions well, which were constant from the night before (and continuous from several weeks beforehand, as well). I was still only 4-5 cm at this point.

Wanting to get this moving before hunger and exhaustion set in further, I asked the midwife to break my water. The contractions hit me hard and fast. I tried to keep my vocalizing low and controlled. When that didn’t work, I surrendered to moaning a primitive, “Help me, Jesus,” repeatedly. At this point, I was still coherent because the thought crossed my mind, “What if the nurse and midwife think I’m taking the Lord’s name in vain?” I didn’t want them to think I was cussing or anything.

Shortly after, I remember the clock reading 1:30 p.m. I did not know that the baby would be born at 2:32 p.m., but this is when I lost the ability to cope. I begged my husband for pain meds, and he just sat there. Everyone just sat there, and I felt so betrayed. They weren’t cold and calculating; I just felt someone should be doing something other than just me.

I tried to yell, but no sound came out. I felt like I was in one of those dreams where someone is chasing you, but you can’t run away. I wanted to yell, to protest. With my last birth, I remember screaming, “I’m going to DIE,” and somehow it made it seem like I wouldn’t.

Sometime after this, I received 5 mg of Nubain. I kept waiting for a break in the contractions. But it never came.

I wanted mercy. I heard them calling my name, asking me to sit up, to move, to respond. I just lay there and delivered the baby flat on my back. There was no sound from me for that last hour. The baby was placed on my stomach, but I did not see him. They shot my leg with pitocin (something I’d never agree to in real life), because obviously, I would not be nursing him to help with the bleeding. I do remember feeling him when he was placed on my stomach, but I did not care. I do not know how much time passed, but the baby was gone by the time I “came to.”

I asked to see him in the nursery, and we went. I did not hold or touch him. I just cried. The nurse asked if I was crying from the cramping, and I agreed even though it was a lie. The pain was not forgotten upon seeing his face. My psyche was just altered forever and everyone acted like this was normal. It took three hours for the shock to wear off, and then I snuggled and enjoyed him. It was strange.

Then the second wave hit—the after pains. They did not send me reeling into another state again, but nonetheless, the thought of nursing a baby during those contractions was unbearable. It would be three days before I’d attempt latching the baby. Knowing that this could possibly sabotage any hope for nursing, I refused anyway. Thankfully, all is well with the milk supply despite the delayed nursing.

I will never say, “I will never _________.” (Wait…)

The baby is strong. He is well. (In fact, his APGAR scores were 9/9.) I am getting stronger, and I will be well. And I’m not crazy, just in case you were wondering.

Incidentally, the day before the delivery was unusual. I received several phone calls (including a few long distance) and emails, and our friends unexpectedly brought by dinner as we played games in between contractions. All our kids spent the evening going bonkers, and it was a great time. I recognize it as grace before the storm, though I’d rather have just avoided the storm altogether.

Philippians 1:29 says, “For it has been granted to you on behalf of Christ not only to believe on him, but also to suffer for him.” We become like Christ not in spite of suffering, but through it. Every trial is an offering to Him and profitable to make us more like Himself, who did not despise the cross but bore it willingly. If this were a movie, the story would end here. But it’s my real life, and the end is better than any of us can imagine.