Being an inpatient on the antepartum wing of the labor & delivery unit, I often see the gaggle of soon-to-be parents taking the tour. I’ve been here for 37 days, and I’ve never done the tour. (I did, however, tour the NICU). I imagine the labor & delivery tour here is something like this: “All the rooms have jacuzzi tubs.” “Many rooms have a view of Husky Stadium!” “Over here, you’ll see our collection of exercise balls that you can use if you’d like.” “Make sure you bring a copy of your birth plan.”
Even though I currently live about 300 feet away from the labor & delivery unit, Friday was the first time I really went over there. During my afternoon monitoring, we saw some concerning decelerations from Baby B. The team was quick to hook me up to an IV of magnesium, inject me with more steroids, and move me over to labor & delivery so I’d be about 300 feet closer to the OR than I am in my current room. Just in case.
The timing of this false alarm was good — it happened around 4pm, my dad was here, and Erin and Sam showed up soon after for their daily visit.
Finally, I got a room with a jacuzzi! And a view! Of course, I never used the jacuzzi because I was hooked up to an IV and monitors all night. Nor did I get a chance to look out the window because I was stuck in bed. They also ran out of labor rooms at 2am and quickly moved me back to my antepartum room. But the jacuzzi was there!
On the white board in the labor rooms, it says “Birth Plan.” I was 29w1d, so what is our plan? The ideal plan: false alarm! No birth today! But if there is a birth today, it should be okay. 29w1d is much better than the last false alarm, which was at 25w2d. The babies would probably be fine! But I still don’t want a birth today. I’m not ready for this, I have some projects to finish, and I’d like to make it longer so the babies don’t spend as much time in the NICU.
As the night shift took over, the anesthesiologist came by to say hi. I think she assumed I was a normal situation. “You can get an epidural if you want one, but it’s your choice and you could also go drug free if you prefer.” I said “it would definitely be a c-section.” And then she said something like “oh, sorry.” What I didn’t say was this: if you looked at my chart more carefully, you’d know there are two possible scenarios for my anesthesia: you put me completely under in an extreme emergency c-section, or you give me a spinal and I can stay awake for a slightly-less-emergency c-section. But whatever. I already got the spiel four weeks ago.
More time went by, and the babies seemed to stabilize. Then we had to answer this question: should Erin stay, or go home? I’m pretty sure that my ideal birth plan wouldn’t include delivering two babies alone. In this situation, it’s hard to know what’s a false alarm. It’s fatiguing and logistically challenging for Erin to be here for every precarious moment. This one felt like a false alarm, so we decided it would be okay for him to go home.
I spent the next several hours watching Schitt’s Creek and sleeping, alone, in my labor & delivery room. Then at 2am, they moved me back to my antepartum room. I stayed on the monitors until 7am. The following days were a bit rocky with extended monitoring each time, but we lived to fight another day.
These are things you don’t think about until you have a high-risk pregnancy. Of course my partner will be there! Of course I will write a birth plan.
I wrote a birth plan last time, for Sam, which talked about trying to go drug-free, delayed cord clamping, and immediate skin-to-skin time. But then of course I had an emergency c-section, so none of that plan really mattered. I also forgot to print it. Hospitals around here try to do their best to accommodate these wishes anyway — who doesn’t want delayed cord clamping? And they still did most of those things, but of course, none of Sam’s birth really went “to plan.” I also don’t care because he is fine.
This time, the birth plan is like this: keep the babies in as long as we can, until we see something terrifying or until the risks become too high based on statistics. Hopefully it will be a calm, scheduled c-section, but there’s a chance it will be an extreme emergency and I’ll have to be put completely under. Regardless, there will be a shitload of people in the room. There’s also a chance Erin won’t be there. The babies will be rushed off to the NICU immediately. In all of this, I have just two wishes: for everyone to be alive, and for a picture of the cords. To me, the cord picture is a badge of honor. It’s the belt buckle of 100 mile running. A symbol of completing a long and arduous journey.
My point in this is not to gather pity. To be clear, I am not particularly upset about any of this (although I’m sure I will have some PTSD to work through later.) My point is that as humans, we try to make sense of things that we really have no control over. In the context of childbirth, we try to focus on controlling little things like sitting on an exercise ball, making sure we have access to jacuzzis, and bringing our own lamps. But at the end of the day, we really don’t have much control over childbirth at all. Then, when things don’t quite go according to plan, we feel sad that our wishes and expectations weren’t met. My intention with these comments isn’t to suggest that you shouldn’t try to have the type of birth you want. My intention is to clarify that things often won’t go according to plan, and it’s okay. And maybe we would feel more okay about it in the end if we didn’t put so many expectations into it.
Why do we care so much about the birth experience anyway? Why isn’t it enough to just focus on keeping everyone alive? On this extreme end of the childbirth spectrum, I see with such clarity how little control I actually have. Sure, I can advocate for more monitoring or little things about my day-to-day experience that may slightly help, but the big decisions here are ultimately NOT my call. I see that my whole care team has the same goal: to have three healthy and living humans on the other side of this, no matter what it takes. Nothing else matters. Nothing except for the cord picture. On the bright side, the doctors want a cord picture too, so even if I’m alone and totally put under, I should still get one.