Everyone left such sweet comments about how foxy I looked after Avelyn’s birth but here’s a tiny glimpse into the darkness of what a 40-hour labour can do to a woman.  This photo was taken around hour 34 and I was growing weary.  The doctors offered me the laughing gas to take the edge off of the pain and that pipe became glued to my face.  The gas didn’t really even help but it helped me to focus on my breathing and feel a little loopy, which was a welcome distraction. 

I began blogging while in labour so that’s the first entry into what is Avelyn’s birth story.  The rest is as follows…

Late Tuesday night was when the contractions really began to intensify.  Steve and I were still at home and I was writhing on the bed, fighting each pain with all I could.  My body was involuntarily convulsing and my teeth chattering unstoppably with each contraction.  We timed the contractions and they were coming about seven minutes apart.  We were hesitant to go back to the hospital again since we’d already been twice and been turned away, so we phoned our doula, Sally, and she came to our house.  I literally became a different woman once she was around.  Instead of fighting the contractions she coaxed me to breathe through them and let my body do the work it had to do.  She was so encouraging and it was such a reassurance to have another woman in the midst.  In the next hour my contractions grew to a mere three minutes apart and Sally said that it was time to return to the hospital.  She said she was sure that I must be past the transition stage of labour and well nearing 6-8 centimetres of dilation.  On the way to the car I puked about six times and lost all of the fluids I had been trying to keep down.  Sally met us at the hospital and upon examination it was determined that I was still only three centimetres dilated.  What?!  How was that possible?  I had been having such intense contractions and had now been labouring for over 30 hours and I was only three centimetres?  The thought of enduring another seven centimetres was crushing.  I was given a shot of morphine (which did nothing to ease the pain) and told to suck back the laughing gas.  I did so for another few hours, all through the dark hours of the early morning.  I was still not progressing.  Around five o’clock a.m. the doctors began to grow concerned that the baby’s heartrate was not recovering well after each contraction.  They were keeping an eye on the monitor and looking more and more grave with each moment that passed.  That is when the talk of a possible C-section began.  I was so frightened for the baby’s well being and so tired of labouring that I was ready to do just about anything for it all to be over.  A new doctor came in to check me out and assess the situation and he gave me the most dreadful internal exam, while I was in the middle of an insane contraction, and that is when I hit the wall.  I just began to weep.  For fear that the baby wasn’t going to make it, for frustration and exhaustion, for the pain I was weary of fighting.  The doctor decided that a C-section wasn’t the best plan at this point and that I should be given an epidural so they could administer some oxytocin to speed up the contractions and get me progressing more.  If the baby didn’t respond well to that, then we would have to opt for the C-section. 

At 8:00 a.m. I was given an epidural and my whole world changed.  The relief was indescribable.  My body relaxed, the oxytocin did its thing and I went from four to ten centimetres in two hours.  Soon thereafter I felt the urge to push and after 30 minutes of pushing we met our girl. 

I wept with joy when they placed her warm, wet body on mine. 

She was perfect.

The 40 hours were more than worth it.