Much has happened since last visiting this space. After much anticipation, and a whirlwind of events: Louis Clement Thibodeau has joined the club! We are so excited for him to be here, and as promised, on the eve before he turns a month old, we share his birth story.
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The end of third trimester was fraught with stress as we waited for labor to begin. I had hit that breaking point around 38 weeks where I could not wait for pregnancy to be over and to meet my boy. A few social events had been planned for the last few weeks, but I was also very cautious about not exposing us to “any certain illness” that would make our hospital stay unpleasant (to say the least). James was finishing last assignments and beginning finals prep – trying to stave off that end of semester burn out. To top things off, we all received a big surprise when my father-in-law found out he needed immediate open heart surgery.
The last two weeks of pregnancy were stressful and prayer-filled as we all worried and trusted that Christ would carry us through every trial. We were cared for and carried by many kind neighbors’ meals and prayers. We all felt Mary’s hand was stretched over us, and despite my anxiety, I knew that God had planned the right time for Louie to be born (just not on my schedule).
My father-in-law’s surgery was successful, though his hospital recovery was slow going. We kept joking that maybe he was being delayed so that he could meet the baby in the hospital when we would eventually be coming for our own stay.
Week 39 came and with it were the last of James’ finals. I had 2 Christmas parties to attend to keep myself busy in addition to some planned one on one time with our toddler. The evening of Christmas party number 1, I badgered James to finish his final paper so that we could be free to have this baby without that stress hanging over our heads. He clicked send moments before I left and we were officially done with his first semester of graduate school! No fancy celebrations were in order, but I told myself that NOW was undoubtedly the best time to have the baby (before Christmas); so God should just make it happen.
I couldn’t explain my foul mood at that Christmas party, outside of end of pregnancy hormones. I was tired, feeling run down, and over it. The delicious desserts weren’t thrilling me like they normally would. That stupid red raspberry leaf tea was just so…unsatisfying. All my clothes felt confining and dumpy. I was incessantly uncomfortable.
I left early – ready for yet another night of irregular contractions. I believe I got one hour of sleep before waking up to a powerful contraction around 1 am. Although I was very aware this might be a false alarm, I decided to download a contraction app as my toddler and James slept soundly beside me. I looked at the clock, noting the time, and tried to relax or dose until I had another. 20 minutes passed and another contraction hit...20 minutes later another...20 minutes later another.
I woke James for a minute (he remembers nothing about this): “I’ve had a contraction every 20 minutes for the past hour. No need to get up, but I’m just letting you know.”
“Okay.” He was back asleep.
I continued to lay in bed the second hour, scrolling Facebook and Instagram. I may have texted a friend or two the update. Feeling very skeptical about the whole experience, I reminded myself this could all fade very quickly. I felt completely fine and normal between contractions (which was the opposite of my previous and only laboring experience of pitocin induction, where everything was excruciating) – so it must mean things were very far from getting serious.
Within that second hour I started noticing that the contractions went very quickly down to ten minutes apart, and then again very quickly to seven minutes apart and increasing in intensity. I was still in bed, but getting restless and increasingly more annoyed with my fellow bed partners who were so blissfully unaware of the situation at hand. However, I was breathing through them well enough, and I didn’t feel I needed much help. May as well let them sleep.
An hour or two passed and I decided that I should get out of bed and test to see if they would fade away with water and a snack. I walked down to the kitchen and bent over the counter top with another strong one – then enjoyed a yogurt parfait and took my little party to our spare bedroom to watch The Office.
I labored on the bed through more and more painful contractions, but again, felt great in between them and laughed heartily at the episode where Michael believes the Italian insurance salesman is part of the mob. I have never liked that episode so much.
At this point I decided to use that little contraction timer app. I knew I was somewhere around five minutes apart, but could they be a minute long? Definitely not!
Sure enough they were around four minutes apart, lasting over a minute long and I was really starting to struggle. I couldn’t remember how long they had been going on at this rate, but possibly an hour, maybe? At this point I went in to James and woke him up.
“I’ve been having regular contractions and they’re intense for hours. So, come watch the Office with me.”
James was eager to please. We unpaused The Office and sure enough a few minutes later he got a front row seat to my labor party.
“How far apart are they?”
“Oh, about three minutes now.”
“WHAT! KATE!?! We need to get the hospital bag and you need to call your OB!”
Here we argued for a minute or two between my contractions where I said I wasn’t really feeling that bad, and we didn’t need to freak out. We could assemble the bag, but I didn’t want to call the OB. Another contraction hit, and I started fumbling for my phone.
I should have known the queues of feeling disoriented and unable to focus, because I couldn’t figure out which number to call, was redirected, and had to eventually ask James to find the number and call for us. My doctor assured me it was time to go in. Second babies have a way of coming fast; better be safe than sorry.
As we trudged downstairs and asked my mother-in-law to keep an eye on our daughter (it was around 5 am by this point), I felt a little railroaded and defeated. I was sure they were going to send me home and I told my mother in law in front of the kitchen counter between my 3 minute apart contractions. She has since confessed that during that conversation she agreed with me that they would probably send me home, but a minute later changed her mind as I worked through my last intense contraction at home.
It was time to go. She doused me with some holy water, and prayed a sweet parting prayer for our labor. We were off!
Laboring in a car isn’t fun, but my fondest memory of that road trip was listening to Wham’s “Last Christmas” as we sailed down the highway. I’ll always think of our son and laugh when I hear that one each year.
We checked in at triage, and our nurse, a sweet Southern lady, asked all the questions and did all the routine things. I waited for her to check me and send me home.
Upon checking, she didn’t readily give me any indication of my progression.
“Is it that bad? Am I going back home?” I asked.
“Oh, no, honey. It’s not bad at all. You’re here to stay.”
But again, she wouldn’t tell me my dilation. I assumed that meant I was a two, definitely no more than a four, and started internally berating everything about my slow laboring body and how long this would take. I had been so determined to try again to not get an epidural, but if the pain was this bad and so little progress? What chance did I have?
I had expected arriving at the hospital would stall my labor, but instead it became much more intense and painful. I was requiring James to help with counter pressure for every single contraction, and trying different positions. Everything felt so very different than my previous labor, as I had been stuck in bed. This time I had full movement and freedom to do whatever my body needed, and a staff that was helping me find new positions.
Shift change came, and with it came the on-call OB, a woman I hadn’t met before. She waltzed in, introduced herself, and asked how I was doing. She then proceeded to tell me, “Well, you’re around 7-8 centimeters right now, so things are moving along.”
“WHAT?!”
I started to cry and laugh at the same time. James and I were beyond surprised at how far we had made it at home and now how close we were to meeting little Louie. I thanked my Southern nurse before she left for not telling me right away, and letting me have that extra time to labor without numbers in my head.
Our new nurse was gentle and sweet and carried us through the hardest transition. Things were moving fast and furious and I was getting to a place of fear from the pain. I had officially reached a point in labor I hadn’t experienced before without an epidural, and that intimidated me.
Some women labor silently; others are very vocal. I loudly identify with the latter. I yelled Hail Mary’s, moaned, told James to push harder, claimed I couldn’t do it, that I was scared. I tried nitrous oxide, but had an absolute aversion after one sniff and shoved it aside.
My labor team (the nurse, James, and Mother Mary) all provided the help I needed in the final moments when I earnestly was afraid I couldn’t do it, that I needed sleep, that I wouldn’t be present or capable of being there for my son.
James continuously told me how proud he was of me and how I could absolutely do it. He told me I didn’t need the epidural (yes, I had coached him to say that), as I started giving up and asked for the anesthesiologist to be sent to us.
My sweet nurse gave James breaks from exerting himself in counter pressure and at one point lowered herself to my laboring position. She looked me straight in the eyes and told me: “Stop saying you can’t do this. You can do this. You are doing this.”
Those yelled and screamed Hail Mary’s were listened to by our Gentle Mother. In the brief rests between contractions as I closed my eyes, I kept picturing the curves of her face, her mantle, her soft and comforting presence. I felt that Mary had us in the palm of her hand, and she wanted to ensure me that she was with us every step of the way.
Around 8:15, in the very thick of transition, I told James I NEEDED an epidural, and asked how long it would take to get it there. I begged and moaned, and the nurse finally agreed to put the heplock in my hand and start fluids. She had hardly inserted the needle when I involuntarily curled up started to bear down pushing.
Things were in motion, doctor called, and I continued pushing. I had never before experienced the force of pressure when your body naturally begins the pushing process. It’s every bit as intense as I’ve heard it described, and I VERY loudly put my full effort into it. Second or third push came and with it the loudest pop and a giant water park splash of my amniotic sack breaking all over James, the nurse, and the OB. It startled all of us and I laughed, but quickly saw meconium, and heard the nurse send for pediatrics to arrive for his birth. The meconium gave me all the motivation needed to finish off this labor. I wanted this baby out and fast. I screamed at James to: “pull this baby out of me!” He still laughs a bit at the memory.
Within 10 minutes Louie was out and with us, safe and sound. He was placed on my belly with his great set of lungs and his full head of hair and James and I fell in love with him in a whole new way.
We snuggled and ooed and awed at him for a few minutes before texting pictures to the family. We found out from my father-in-law, still recovering in the cardiac wing of the hospital, that every time a baby is born, the hospital plays a lullaby. When Louie's lullaby played, Frank knew his grandson had been born, moments before we shared the news via phone. We ended up taking Frank home from the hospital with us when we were discharged -- everyone safe and sound and home for Christmas!
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My favorite moments from both of my births have been when I pull my new squishy babes up to my cheek after their cords have been cut. I marvel at how they know Mama without any formal introductions and calm at the warmth of my embrace. It is our time (I’m sure designed by God) to finally realize the love we’ve been growing for the long nine months.
I have many things to take away from this birth, but overall I felt such a sense of gratitude that Mama Mary carried us through it. God gave me the strength to allow my body to do what is was made to do, despite my doubts. James and I were able to work as a team much better this time around. I relied on him and he trusted that I would be able to deliver his son healthy and at the right time.
Louie’s birth redeemed my birth with Lizzy, where all of my hopes were dashed by our circumstances. My hospital birth this time around, despite the stress of my father-in-law’s heart surgery, the pandemic, James’ finals and my utter exhaustion from the past 6 months was so beautiful and picturesque.
To top it off, we noticed the morning following his birth that our lovely church steeple was the view from our hospital room – God was near us all along!
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