My COVID Birth Story – Pt. 2
This is Part 2 of my story. If you haven’t read Part 1, I recommend starting there.
We left off on the night before my induction was to begin after two weeks of waiting for my body to begin labor naturally. I went to bed hoping to be woken.
Friday, April 3rd: 42 weeks pregnant
I awoke the next morning a full 42 weeks pregnant and walked into the hospital a ‘high risk’ woman. With that label, I would not be allowed to birth in the zen room with the forest wallpaper.
The stuffed backpack, body pillow, and tote bag of snacks – plus the weight of my various emotions – were far too much for my very pregnant body to carry, so Bjarke made the calculated decision to walk into the hospital with me, though it violated protocol. We figured that we shared the same household, and he would be back in the same ward as soon as I hit active labor – what difference would it make that he was here for a few seconds now?
All the difference, apparently.
[Try and float back to Spring 2020. ‘COVID-19’ still felt fresh when we spoke it. Science had far more questions than answers. Everyone and everything seemed a potential threat – people were sanitizing their groceries, and many of us moved through the world as though each person wore a cloak of 6-foot thorns. I myself was much pricklier than normal, as you see here.]
From across the red-and-white caution tape that ensured no one breeched the six feet of social distance, personnel scowled at Bjarke and scolded him for coming in with me. “Did you expect the 42-week pregnant person to carry all of this up here?” I asked, unapologetic as I was truly finished with tact at this late stage.
Off to a great start.
I was shown to my room in the ‘sick pregnant folks’ wing. To my delight, it was a private room with a floor-to-ceiling window. The nurse told me that, due to COVID, I wasn’t allowed to roam the halls. I was to sit tight in this room and ring the red button so they could fetch what I needed, from a fork to assistance in coping with contractions.
My ‘cozified’ oxytocin corner. Knitting? Check. Fuzzy socks? Check. Rainbow colors? Check. Flowers? Check. Snacks in arm’s reach? Check. Not pictured (because I’m taking a picture): the baking show on my phone.
I look back fondly on that sunlit space where I spent my last chunk of ‘me-time.’ I had nowhere else to be, no one else to please. My only job was to stay there and keep my oxytocin flowing. I took this assignment very seriously, taking care to transform a rolling storage locker and a generic upholstered chair next to the window into my feel-good corner. I draped my rainbow colored rebozo scarf over the locker like a tablecloth, placed my painted affirmations in view, cued up Den Store Bagedyst (Denmark’s Great British Baking Show) on my tiny phone screen, put my feet up, and took my knitting up into my lap.
I ordered a smattering of small plates from the hospital kitchen, making sure to snag a hummus platter, on recommendation by a friend who’d given birth here a few months back.
People came in periodically to check my vitals and monitor Baby. One visitor, a midwife named Sara, received my searching questions with grace, lingering a long while in the doorframe as I continued to press about the accuracy of measuring amniotic fluid and why exactly, after a completely uncomplicated pregnancy, I was all of the sudden high risk when the clock struck midnight.
In my tender state, I asked her what had become the most consuming wondering in my mind: What if my body is truly not ready to birth yet, and this induction ends up taking several days? Would it have been quicker and safer to wait for Baby to come on their own in a way that wasn’t forced? They may have turned up on Saturday after a smooth 12-hour labor, instead of on Sunday after 48 hours of complicated labor, for example.
She listened to me in the exact way I needed. Of course, she had no answer. She validated that a ‘low fluid’ diagnosis can be imprecise. She also offered that, if it was up to the midwives, inductions (and the pressure to accept them) would not begin before 42 weeks, so that babies have the full opportunity to come when they’re ready. In contrast, the obstetricians like to see them offered shortly beyond 41 weeks so that no pregnancy lasts longer than 42 weeks (there is data on why this is; trust me, I scoured it, but I’d wanted someone to look at me and my baby – not numbers – to determine a plan).
Both of us knew that what she said with her words wasn’t going to change my situation, but it was the gentle way with which she held me in that moment that mattered. It sticks with me to this day.
Mid-afternoon, Bjarke called to ask me out on a date in the parking lot.
I said ‘yes’ and snuck out the back door (no roaming the halls, remember?). We walked a couple loops around the asphalt and then he instructed me to close my eyes and wait. When I opened them, he had set out a proper ‘cake break,’ complete with a vase of tulips from his mom, on a blue scarf tablecloth atop some rocks where the parking lot met the edge of the woods. We sipped hot tea and split two pastries from our neighborhood bakery – one was black currant and the other salted caramel.
‘Cake break’ in the parking lot.
I stood there in my sunglasses and winter jacket, my belly as big as it would ever be, knowing then that this would be some story.
Back in my me-time room, I set my tulips on the decked-out rolling locker and watched baking show contestants become balls of anxiety over a mousse that might not set. My fingers looped yarn around fat knitting needles with contentment. When one is on the brink of a big life change and has the luxury of knowing it, these simple pleasures come into sharp focus. I enjoyed the heck outta those hours.
My dinner arrived without me doing so much as removing my feet from my footrest. The Thai coconut soup warmed me right up. Five stars for the hospital food.
After dinner, Bjarke called to ask me out on another date. This time, I’d interrogated Sara the midwife for intel, and she tipped me off to a place that was at least twice as romantic as the far side of the parking lot. I also learned that the back door locks at 9 o’clock, so I’d need to return by then, lest I wanted to trudge my pregnant body all the way to the main entrance and risk having to explain myself.
At 8pm, I walked out the door, up the stairs and turned right on the fire lane. I continued past the faculty parking and dialysis clinic, past the white tents of Corona patient intake and the rooftop gardens until I spotted Bjarke. We walked a bit, me breathing through the few contractions that came, and then arrived back at the car. He gestured for me to contort myself into the back seat, where I found a giant tub of fresh popcorn and a blanket. We popped on a comedy and had ourselves a little drive-in movie. Before the show finished, I hurried off to reach my room before curfew, feeling the rush of a teenager who slipped back into the house in the middle of the night, unnoticed.
‘Drive-in’ comedy behind the hospital.
I’d been taking the induction pills every other hour for about 8 hours at that point and could feel a rhythmic tightening of my uterus. Someone came to check my cervix (isn’t it weird that I couldn’t tell you who performed such an intimate exam?) to see if I’d dilated enough to have my water broken. The answer was no.
Not at all knowing what the night would bring, I gingerly re-set my room for the darkness. I transformed the locker into a birth shrine with tea lights placed to illuminate my words of affirmation. I dropped lavender oil on my pillow and put a birth meditation in my ears.
To be honest, it felt kind of badass to take charge of my own birth in this way – there was nobody there but me and my baby, and it felt like an awesome responsibility. With that thought, I drifted to sleep.
I awoke at 2am to the familiar but long-forgotten feeling of period cramps. At last, progress! I did what I usually do to soothe my uterus and rose up on all fours to let my belly hang loose. I breathed in for 4 counts and out for 8 as I’d practiced most of my pregnancy. I told myself to let go and open.
After several waves, I excitedly opened up the contraction tracker app. They were coming every three minutes! They were lasting a minute each! After an hour, a notification flashed: “You are in active labor.” Holy crap, this was really happening! Thrilled, I grabbed my phone to call Bjarke. It was 3am and he was sleeping at home, but had I been home too, I know I’d have woken him up. We decided I’d call in the midwife and he would be on standby to join me at the hospital.
The midwife came in, this time a gentle, older woman, and hooked me up to the CTG to monitor Baby – this was the whole reason I was in the hospital, so we could see how baby coped with labor as soon as it began. Flying colors again. My baby is a champ – I knew it.
She didn’t seem eager to declare active labor and send me to the birth ward. Instead, she brought Panodil and heating pads. With those aids, I continued to rest between contractions (unbelievably…this is actually a real thing) through the night.
Nighttime birth shrine.
Saturday, April 4th: 42 weeks + 1 day pregnant
With the rising of the sun, my contractions mysteriously faded, lasting only half a minute with upwards of seven minutes between them. With that, my naive nighttime hopes dissolved. I found myself back in the loathed position of choosing the best of the very few and very unappealing options in front of me.
The whole point of the pills was to dilate my cervix enough so that my water could be manually broken. I’d really hoped that the medicine would wake up my body and I would take it from there.
I received yet another cervical check and was told I’d opened just enough – 2cm – to break my water. No part of me wanted this, but I had agreed to board the induction train with that very first pill, and the momentum felt too great to stop.
The midwife (a new one) told me she’d perform the procedure as soon as the labor ward calmed down from a busy night (broken water automatically bumps one into the ‘active labor’ category). Have I mentioned that this is Denmark’s busiest birth ward, where one whole school class of babies is born every single day? I would wait my turn. And I would be a nervous wreck while doing it.
At 12pm, yet another midwife came to tell me it was time. Deep breaths. Ok. She set up who-the-hell-knows tools and embarked on her search for my cervix, this time on a mission to puncture the amniotic sac. At so many points I told her to pause, which she did, but she had to resume each time because she hadn’t yet accomplished the mission. I still remember it clear as day – this was honestly one of the most painful points of my labor. At peak discomfort, I searched my brain for any other way. Anything. How could I get out of this? However frantic I felt, I still came up short for an alternative.
The midwife and her tools retreated, and with it came relief. But then she said, “I didn’t get it. I’m going to have to fetch a different tool and try again.” I about jumped off that stupid paper covered bed and ran away. But then I remembered, the only way out of this is through.
She came back with a tool she thought would prick better, and up she went again. I was splayed and helpless, and this woman reached up and literally scratched my baby’s amniotic sac until it popped. This time, I felt a puddle of warmth pool underneath me, and I knew it was done. I wish I could say I felt relief in this moment. But instead I felt vulnerable and exposed, about to be marched further down this path I did not want to choose.
I was left alone in that room, leaking into one of those giant hospital pads held up by an underwear net.
At 1pm, a kind-eyed woman showed up to help gather my things to move into the labor ward, where Bjarke would meet me. [I got teary as I wrote this, remembering the relief of seeing a familiar face and of having my sturdy birth partner and father of my child with me now.]
Throwing in a throwback photo to pay homage to Bjarke and his steadfast support through pregnancy and birth.
Bjarke and I landed in a huge, private waiting room for those in early labor. I wondered how anyone expected us to use all this space (and kind of wanted to accept that challenge).
Our next midwife introduced herself, pulling her mask down for a moment to flash a smile. This was before mask mandates, and she told us she was just being extra cautious to protect her kids, but that it was ok we didn’t have masks ourselves. She read my birth preferences in their entirety – something that every single midwife did, and for that I am so grateful.
Several weeks back I’d printed my birth preferences and hung them on the fridge for our home birth. It had tips like where the midwives and doula could locate snacks, who could be FaceTimed if I needed a pep talk, that English is my first language, and how to talk to me so I wouldn’t pass out if I were to be poked by needles. It also had provisions for possibilities like hospital transfer, epidural, and cesarean birth. (Yes, I wanted to birth at home, but I was also a realist.)
In the two weeks between home birth cancellation and checking into the hospital, I scratched out no-longer relevant instructions and scribbled new notes in the margins. In big print at the top, I wrote: “I DO NOT WANT TO BE HERE.” Subtle, right? But I felt that everyone would be best served if I kept it real and said how I felt about things. There’s no where to hide in birth anyway.
The midwife read it and empathized. Then she told me she needed to hook me up to be continuously monitored and I did a double-take. Wait, what? For someone who tenses up at the mere whiff of a hospital, I felt that being tethered to medical equipment by a 6-foot leash would not at all help me relax and progress. After a bit of negotiation, she swapped out the machine for a wireless one and brought an exercise ball to bounce on so I could remain upright and in motion. She wrapped my belly in my personal CTG belt, and there was Baby’s heartbeat, happy as could be.
Got myself situated in the new space to work through contractions that were coming every 5-8 minutes.
During this initial meeting, the midwife recommended that we start Pitocin, the reason being that I continued contracting, but with no real momentum building. It was 3:15pm; I’d felt like they’d only just broken my water and wanted to give it more time to kick in. I had my fists up, ready to fend off Pitocin at every turn. I feared the intense contractions brought on by the synthetic hormone, thinking they may be more than I could handle without medical pain relief. I so strongly craved the space for my body to do what it was naturally capable of, with as little interference as possible. We declined.
In a moment of panic, Bjarke and I learned the hard truth that the hospital does not supply food to those in the labor ward (people don’t usually hang out there for a long time, so this is reasonable). We dialed Bjarke’s mom and asked for emergency supplies. Within no time at all, we received a feast of homemade soup, cheese, and bread.
At 5:30pm, my cervix was checked. I braced myself for the delivery of a number that would determine if I felt triumphant or crushed. “3 centimeters,” the midwife said sympathetically. Crushed it was. I’d opened 1 centimeter in over 8 hours. But I was still hanging on to hope that my body could do this, if just given the time. We declined Pitocin again.
Increasingly desperate, we rang our doula, who guided us through some exercises and offered counsel. My contractions remained sporadic. The midwife returned at 7pm to deliver her obligatory recommendation of Pitocin and we delivered our routine “no, thank you.”
She returned 45 minutes later with the offer of more acupuncture. I felt really seen in that moment – like she had heard our decline of Pitocin and found another option that fit us better. With no hesitation this time, I said yes. Her colleague came in and placed needles in the same spots that received them a couple weeks before. She also proposed one in a strange and particularly painful-sounding place – and even made a lot of jokes to coax me – but I remained a firm no. I’m about to push a human out of my vagina, but poking a needle under the nail of my pinky toe is where I draw the line.
I kept bouncing on my ball, working through the contractions that trickled in as they pleased. At some point, I got set up with a TENS machine, which delivers tickling electric shocks through different nodes taped to my back. I held the remote in my hand and could switch up patterns and strength.
At 9pm the midwife checked my cervix… “3.5 centimeters.” She recommended Pitocin again, firmly this time.
I went limp from shock. No f#&@ing way. No. No. No. All those hours, all those contractions, that horrible water breaking… and almost no progress – at least not progress that pleased hospital policy. My heart began to pound and the red veil of rage lowered over my eyes. Anger welled up inside me, starting at my toes, working up through my legs, belly, chest….until I could not stand being there a moment more. I muttered frustrated words in the direction of Bjarke and the midwife and ran out, gasping for air from any room but that one.
When I regained enough composure to form less sharp words, I walked back into the room to find only Bjarke. The midwife had picked up on my *subtle* cues and left us some time to talk.
I was clouded by decision fatigue, but the one thing I knew to my bones was that I was in no headspace to ramp up the intensity of my birth right now. For weeks, I’d been trying to pull out the positivity and keep my head up. But I was empty now. There would be no pulling myself together. We decided to tell the midwife that we needed to rest for two hours, and then we could begin the drip.
Outside our door, the midwife had been consulting with the obstetrician on duty about how to advise us. She came back with an offer Bjarke and I hadn’t expected: take off all the monitors and rest as best we can. Then start Pitocin on a fresher foot in the morning.
It felt like an olive branch; we did not have to resist. We accepted the offer and faced the night.
In the muddy darkness that turned Saturday into Sunday, as I breathed through intense but still spaced out contractions, I realized what that hand-painted “Surrender” meant for me. I needed to lay down the ideas I’d had about what my birth would be like, in order to make room – and make decisions – for the birth I was actually having.
As the sunlight returned, and with it my contractions waning, I knew it was time to let go – let go of the thought that birthing unmedicated was the only way to have an empowering and positive experience. Let go of the system I’d put in place to help me cope with the power of birth: my cozy home environment, my birth pool, my doula’s physical presence, my fellow mothers on speed-dial. Those were unavailable to me due to my combination of ‘overdue’ and coronavirus timing. The system I had access to was the medical one, and it was time to embrace that.
I asked myself, “Why am I trying to be a hero?” “For what?” I didn’t have an answer.
With that, I knew what I wanted to do. It wasn’t a conscious decision, but rather, more of a knowing of the best next step. I would get the Pitocin drip as agreed, but I would request an epidural beforehand. After more than 24 hours of contractions, with those on this night particularly draining, I was good, thanks. I had no need to feel another – no need to hang my hat on the heroics of unmedicated birth.