45 minutes later, nothing had changed. The pain was extremely doable, and I was sitting up in bed chatting with my mom and Stevie and Liz in between the contractions. But I hadn't dilated any further, and the contractions didn't get closer together. So they amped up the pitocin.
45 minutes later again, still no change. They upped the pitocin once again.
Once again, nothing happened. Not one single change.
The midwife came back. Now, remember, I really like this woman. During all my prenatal care, I felt like she was the one midwife that really "got" me. She knew my personality, knew my convictions, and was very *for* my natural birth plan. Which we had already forgone. But when she came back after my 4 hours on the pitocin and epidural with absolutely no progression, things got real. She told me that I wouldn't like what she was about to say, "I need to bring the doctor in to see you. She's probably going to talk about some things that you don't want to hear. But you should be further dilated than 8 cm by now. Something isn't right here."
I immediately began to get angry. I knew what this little speech was leading to. They are going to freaking tell me I need a freaking c-section. Insert a few explicates, because as someone once told me, cursing is for labor.
I had my outburst of anger. I don't think I yelled, but who knows. I started asking Liz question after question - am I just a statistic here? Have I been duped? Am I just another dumb girl who comes into the hospital with a natural birth plan and leaves with a c-section?? Is there really *something wrong*?
Throughout this entire labor, my heart rate and Daxton's heart rate had never faltered. There were no signs of a problem. Why on earth would I need a surgery? Things were just going slowly, right??
The midwife came in with the doctor, and everything in the room got very very fast. The doctor sat down with me and was frank. She told me that I had fallen "way off the curve" and I should have already had my baby by now. She explained that something wasn't quite right if pitocin hadn't finished my dilation, so she wanted to go ahead and check me and see if she could feel the baby being positioned incorrectly. I consented. What else was I supposed to do? At least she was being really straight forward with me. I appreciated her candor.
She checked me and announced to the room, "Okay, the baby is ROT." I just stared blankly at her. She explained that ROT means that his head should be facing down so that my cervix could properly dilate over it, but instead, his head was turned entirely to the left. This is why I hadn't fully dilated - his head wouldn't allowed it.
She said, "I know that a c-section isn't on your birth plan," and then explained what we could do to try to get him out without resorting to a surgery. Which involved us "working together" during my contractions, with her putting her entire hand up in my uterus and trying to rotate Daxton while I pushed with all my might. No big deal right? I took a deep breath and agreed - anything is better than getting sliced. From the moment I said yes, the room was flooded with half a dozen new nurses and technicians. The friendly anesthesiologist was back and threw the switch on my epidural, amping it up by 50%. Everyone gathered around me like you see in the movies, helping me hold my legs behind my knees, and began yelling words of encouragement - You can do this! You've got a contraction coming, are you ready? Get ready - okay, now push! Push! PUSH PUSH PUSH!!!
Remember that lovely feeling I described before, about the epidural being relatively light? Well, since they gave me a ton of it all at once, I couldn't feel the contractions at all. I felt a surge of intense pressure and heaved into pushing to the best of my ability. It was hard to feel where to put all my energy. I bore down as hard as possible. I pushed like my life depended on it. I closed my eyes and went into the deepest parts of myself, pushing from a place of absolute desperation to meet my son. I tried to open my eyes and focus on Stevie's eyes, but everything was so intense and I had trouble focusing on him. I exerted all my final energy into those pushes, and felt myself come very close to the edge of my ability. Everything around me was light and dark all at once, and I was overcome with a piercing siren of pressure and hope and doubt.
We tried this technique for 3 rounds of contractions. Each time the doctor tried to turn Daxton's head (with her hand inside my uterus), he didn't like it and turned back into the ROT position. And each time she tried to move his position, his heart rate dropped.
And that was it. She wouldn't put him in danger, so she stopped. She looked at me and said, "We are done with trying this - his heart rate has dropped and this is now an emergency situation." Suddenly an oxygen mask was lowered onto my face and the flurry of nurses rushed all over the room.
I looked at Stevie and we both knew what this meant. There was no question in his eyes or my mind - we were going to get this baby out, and it was a surgery that was going to do it. We nodded to each other, breathless, pouring sweat and compounding fear and hope. I turned to the doctor and said, "We trust you." She looked me right in the eyes and said something, I can't remember what, but she was reassuring me. I wasn't hearing words anymore, I was communicating almost solely on the language of eye contact. Just by looking at them, I knew Stevie and I were in unity on this decision, I knew my mom was prayerfully hopeful, I knew my doula was sad but believed this was the right call. And we were all trusting the instinct of this doctor and her team to take over the birth and safely bring my baby into the world.
Suddenly my bed was rolling. Stevie was being dressed in scrubs by the team. They began wheeling me toward the OR. I remember my mind suddenly got very clear and focused. I remember thinking to myself, "I'm probably going to need some counseling to process all of this, so I need to remember everything." I counted the number of nurses in the room - 7. The color of their scrubs - powder blue. The tone of their voices - fast paced but calm. Everything was being imprinted in my memory. The trusty anesthesiologist was back in the room, his team was poking and prodding me. He asked if I could feel his pokes below my belly button. I almost yelled, "yes!" - because I didn't want them to start the surgery if I could feel anything! He said, "Okay, I'll give the epidural 30 more seconds," and thirty seconds later, he poked me again. I told him I could still feel his pokes and it wasn't numb down there, and he said, "Really??" Then they all looked at each other and agreed on something, and he informed me that he would be putting me under general anesthesia because it was time to operate. He said that Stevie wouldn't be able to come in the room now because of the general anesthesia and they lowered another mask onto my face. The last thing I remember is grabbing the nurse's arm next to me and pleading with her to take care of my baby. She locked eyes with me and nodded in agreement. If it sounds melodramatic, well, that's exactly how it felt. They were going to take my baby out of me and I was going to have almost nothing to do with it.
And then I don't remember anything else.
When I woke up, they told me my baby was healthy and safe, and in his daddy's arms. Stevie had been holding him for almost thirty minutes when I finally got to meet my big, stunning baby boy - he was so big! I couldn't believe it when they told me everything about him! 9 lbs. 8 oz.! 21.75 inches long! He screamed from the moment the doctor pulled him out of my womb (which meant he hadn't been influenced by the general anesthesia, thank goodness). Stevie's eyes were brimming with gratitude and exhaustion and tears when he laid Daxton on my bare chest. He helped me hold him, since I was still numb and unable to maneuver my body. But nothing mattered. My boy was healthy and strong and a fighter. And he was here. His blue eyes were already apparent and his long, lithe body was sturdy and thick. What a gorgeous, perfect gift from my maker.
