Every child has a different story. Regardless of the way in which God brings babies into families, each moment, each breath, each tiny soul is a picture of God's ceaseless grace to mankind. God doesn't have to give new life. But He does.
My mother booked her plane ticket in late December. She was coming on January 28th and staying till February 18th.
My due date (as of my last ultrasound) was February 6th. (Although both Scott and I were firmly convinced that this baby's actual due date was January 25th.)
I was staunchly determined that Bets was going to arrive on January 29th, one day after my mom, so that I could have 3 long weeks of help from my mother. I had no idea what obstacles I would face while parenting two babies, but I was determined to have my mama there to walk me through the first tricky weeks.
Right on schedule, at 6 a.m. on January 29th, I began to have contractions. I was psyched. I had just had an amazingly restful night, and I was ready to meet the little person inside of me.
Throughout the rest of the day my contractions continued, but the time between them varied from 4 minutes to 15 minutes. I had a midwife who (in her own words) told me, "I'm a one-woman show. Let's not spend hours hanging out at the hospital." And I was totally in favor of that. My plan was:
1) arrive at the hospital
2) pop out a baby as quickly as possible,
3) sleep.
Further "birth planning" I did not do. Perhaps that was foolish, perhaps I use up all my planning mojo on a daily basis (I do love a good planning session!), perhaps I was just ignorant, but I firmly believed that the baby would come how she wanted when she was ready. Stories from my friends had taught me how often birth plans get thrown out the window. So, I didn't even bother.
By five that evening, I was exhausted... and that's when the contractions really took off. By 8:30 p.m. I was admitted to the hospital at 5 centimeters dilated.
In my ignorance, I thought I was tired then.
Over the next 2 hours, my contractions intensified. And I was super-duper mad at Eve for eating that fruit in the garden of Eden. I'm sure every woman has coping tactics for labor. Mine consisted of cutting off my husband's circulation to his hands, neck (yes, neck), and arms. Scott was wonderful. He didn't say corny, encouraging nothings. He didn't pretend to know what I was going through. He merely let me order him into a variety of positions that let me lean on him for support. Fortunately, the nurse and midwife stayed out of the room for the majority of this time. For whatever reason, I hated it when others were in the room. Talk to me, and I wanted to punch you. I wanted to do this alone. Only Scott was comforting.
By 10:40, there was no break between contractions and I was in horrible pain. I was no strenger to debilitating pain, and had dealt with it (with a morphine drip), multiple times in the hospital. This was a completely different kind of pain. Not worse. Just different. Think menstrual cramps that make you want to commit suicide. Many of my contractions were in my back. It was excruciating.
And I was done.
I had been trying to have a natural child-birth. My reasoning was two-fold:
First, I did not want to pay for an anesthesiologist. My pregnancy was a "pre-existing condition" when we switched insurances, so none of my hospital expenses were covered. The church had graciously given us a very generous gift to cover labor and delivery, but my recent experience with hospital billing departments (compliments of Grant's adoption and my ulcerative colitis) had taught me that the crazy prices of medical care are a constantly moving target. I didn't think an anesthesiologist's addition to a bill would keep us within budget.
Second, I wanted to see if I could do this. Women have done this for centuries. From Eve's induction into pain-drenched motherhood, to Mary, birthing a Savior, alone in Bethlehem with Joseph--alone without her mama--women have dealt with childbirth. When the west was being settled, I'm pretty sure there weren't competent doctors with happy drugs and a big needle. I have this weirdly stubborn streak (which never exhibits itself at good times, usually just when I'm sinning or being stupid), and my stubborn streak wanted to prove I could do this. (Like I said, my stubborn streak makes me stupid.)
But at 10:40, while I was groaning, "No, honey, I'll be fine please... Oh, this hurts!" Scott had had enough of my pain (and frankly, so had I), and he left to track down the midwife and an anesthesiologist. I did not try to stop him. I was done proving to the long-gone women of the Wild West that I could do this. I wanted to not feel anything south of my neck.
My midwife, Ronni, returned, and (after telling me that I was dilated 9 centimeters), gave me a calm, matter-of-fact pep talk. She basically convinced me that an epidural wouldn't really help much at this stage in the game. Ronni was God's provision for this labor and delivery. I love her. Even though any future pregnancies will be covered by insurance, I'm not going to an OB. I am going back to Ronni. Her coaching was clear, her directions concise, her knowledge amazing. Her business-like approach to the next stage of labor, coupled with a brief break in contractions convinced me that I didn't need an epidural. I could do this.
And I did.
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| Tiny, but so loud! Even the nurses commented on her lungs. Scott said she's the next Sandy Patti. |
At 11:27, I started pushing. And at 11:46, Elizabeth Wynne Allison was born.
God gave me a wonderful blessing after months of miserable pregnancy: He gave me a smooth, fast, and (comparatively!) painless delivery. 3 hours of real labor. 19 minutes of pushing. And a healthy baby that made the months of misery and the hours of pain fade like fuzzy nightmares in the morning. Within 24 hours of labor, I felt better than I had felt in months. Such an unexpected blessing!
Scott caught Bets and cut the cord. I cuddled my baby, sticky, slimy, squalling. She was so tiny! Six pounds, ten ounces, 18.5 inches long. She had a head full of dark curls, my massive chunky fingers, Scott's hairline, huge blue eyes, and gorgeously deep nail-beds which she will love when she hits high school.
She was a complete and total surprise. I spent 9 months convinced that I was probably just growing a massive tumor with its own heartbeat. When I tried to picture my daughter, I never imagined such big eyes and dark hair. I never thought she would be so petite. Honestly, even though I tried, it was hard to imagine a human at all...
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| Poor Chicka-Bee... Adjusting to life is hard! |
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| So skeptical! And so precious. |
Every baby has their own story.
And the underpinnings of each baby story, regardless of differences of conception, development, and birth, belong to a God whose love and grace cause Him to give new life.
Hallelujah, my God is abundance.