Thad’s Birth Story | Part 8: “I want to be done!”

I shared Thad’s birth story in installments on social media. Since not everyone is on social media, I wanted to also share the story of his birth here on my blog. This version is the narrative form version, which I wrote initially for family and friends. If you’re jumping in here on this post, you may want to go back and start with Part One.
Alternatively, I also have an overview post of my pregnancy and Thad’s birth over here on this post.
I had three tough contractions leaning against the counter. Two were short, one felt very long. Gabe did the double hip squeeze on my hips – it barely seemed to help.
I asked for two combs and abandoned efforts to relax through the next one, I was all about squeezing those combs as hard as I could to distract from the intensity of the contractions. The teeth cut into the palms of my hands, leaving marks.
In the span of just a few minutes, I could feel the hormone shift from oxytocin to adrenaline start to happen – I felt jittery, cold, shaky. “You know,” I said to Gabe, “I hope this isn’t a false alarm. But I don’t think it is. I’m feeling transition feelings.” He just nodded agreeably.
Climbing into the birth tub, I registered momentarily that the water was skin temperature. It didn’t feel like a hot relaxing bath, but it also wasn’t too cool. Then another contraction hit and I didn’t care to analyze the temperature anymore.
I tried to get my relaxation groove back in the water – shifting and moving to try to get comfortable, but the pressure in my low back was too intense.
I was vaguely aware of Gabe moving around and doing things. He brought in towels from the tote of birth supplies on the porch. He texted back and forth our friend coming to help with the girls. He called our friend who was supposed to take Laz. He stoked the fire.
But somehow, with the mounting intensity of each contraction, he would appear at my side, his calm presence within arm’s reach, and his voice just the right timbre of reassurance and encouragement. He’d count to 8 repeatedly like a metronome, or say, “Good job, that’s it, you’re doing great,” or remind me, “Focus on your breath, one breath at a time. You’re almost done.”
This isn’t how all our labours have gone. Gabe and I were alone for most of Mara’s labour and we both felt like it went down like a train wreck. He didn’t know what to offer for support, I didn’t know how to ask. We both felt alone and out of control. With Jem’s labour we recruited friends who, honestly, I remember far more vividly during that labour process than I remember Gabe even being present. For Laz, we had the same friends, but Gabe was equally present and supportive in my memory. And for this birth, both of those friends were in North America, so we had a good reason to mix it up – or rather, come full circle to managing together.
Somewhere in the back of my brain, I realised this was something I had really wanted – I wanted the chance to redeem the experience of Mara’s birth dynamics for Gabe and I both.
But most of my awareness was focused on the intensity of sensations in the birth tub. 5 or 6 contractions after climbing in the tub, the low back pain was mounting and staying – not easing between contractions – and I was tired. I was so tired of experiencing contractions. I was so over this drawn out process. I felt like we’d been doing this for days. And I wanted it done.
“I don’t want to do this anymore.” I told Gabe through gritted teeth during the next contraction, my hands squeezing the combs hard enough to draw blood. “I want to be done!”
“I know. I know it’s hard. You’re almost there.” He offered more coconut water cranberry juice. I gulped it.
As the next contraction built I felt the tiniest urge to push, and I went with it. I decided if there was anything I could do to urge this process along, I was over being patient. I wasn’t going to wait for this baby to waltz out on its own. It was time to get the job done!
In the corner of the room, the orchid that we had been given after our second miscarriage, and then had bloomed the morning of Lazlo’s birth was cheerfully blooming away. Even the plant knew: it was time!
Part Nine