Today marks one week since we brought our son home. It’s funny how the ride from the hospital seems a bit less scary with your second newborn. Yet, while so much with Ezra has been simpler because we know what to expect, his birth was far from easy. In fact, for a moment, it was downright terrifying.
Due to various factors, the primary one being gestational diabetes, I was informed that I would need to be induced by 39 weeks. However, based on my experience with Marcie, I didn’t share the doctor’s concern that this baby would be too big for me to deliver naturally or that the child would have complications. After all, if I went into labor on my own with Marcie at 40 weeks 4 days and experienced no complications despite my gestational diabetes, then, surely, this pregnancy would unfold in a similar fashion. Unfortunately, it did not.
On Friday, November 29, I started feeling slight contractions. Although I tried to remain realistic, I was ecstatic. See, my body did know what it was doing.
However, the excitement started to dwindle as the days passed and the contractions didn’t turn into labor. By the following Friday, my doctor was adamant that I be induced, and, exhausted from fighting for a natural birth, I consented to be induced that Sunday: my baby’s due date.
That Friday night, I prayed. I asked God for peace, but what I really wanted was for labor to start on its own before Sunday. Like I had done to induce Marcie’s labor, I downed some castor oil and went to bed.
When I awoke to noticeable contractions, I was once more encouraged, especially as they seemed to intensify throughout the morning. Unfortunately, by lunch time, the signs of labor had ceased, and I was back to feeling frustrated. By dinner, it was evident that God was clearly deciding to not answer my prayer for a natural birth. Instead of choosing to trust Him, though, I fought back.
Why? Essentially, the answer was simple: I was afraid. With Marcie, I labored at home for 24 hours before I went to the hospital, where I labored for 4 more hours and pushed for 20 minutes before welcoming my sweet girl. I thought that that was a near perfect birth, and I wanted that same experience for this child because, if I had to be induced, I would be stuck in the hospital, unable to do things, like baking or cleaning, to distract me from the pain. I didn’t want to receive an epidural, but I was aware that Pitocin creates stronger contractions. What if my body wasn’t able to cope with the pain? What if one medical intervention led to another? What if I had to have a C-Section? What if I experienced complications that made it difficult to breastfeed my baby? What if I had waited too long to be induced? What if….?
That evening, after everyone had gone to bed, I sat in the living room, re-reading through cards I had received at our Baby Sprinkling. In one card, the family had written Joshua 1:9
“Have I not commanded you? Be strong and of good courage; do not be afraid, nor be dismayed, for the Lord your God is with you wherever you go.”
As comforting and applicable as that truth was, I still struggled to let go of my fear. But God, in His unfathomable love, is relentless. Throughout the remainder of the evening, from writing thank you cards to brushing my teeth to crawling into bed, I heard His voice gently urging me to trust Him. So I did. I told God that I was not strong enough to do this on my own; I need Him to orchestrate this birth to be beautiful and not traumatic like my wild imagination was conjuring it to be. And then I submitted a specific request:
I asked for peace and for hospital staff who were 1) Christians, and 2) were competent and compassionate.
On Sunday, December 8, my baby’s due date, I awoke to gray skies. After a busy morning of preparations and a tense drive to the hospital, we were ready to begin the process of meeting our little one.
At 11:30am, I received my first dose of Misoprostol. Since I was only dilated to 2cm, this medication would help soften my cervix, preparing the way for Pitocin. Fortunately, the first dose didn’t cause strong contractions, allowing me to nap, write some more thank you cards, and catch up with some friends. Around 4:30pm, I received my second dose of Misoprostol. To my encouragement, I began to feel more steady contractions, but they weren’t too bad; I found that laughing through them, thanks to a humorous podcast, almost completely distracted me from them.
At 8pm, I was allowed to go for a 20 minute stroll. Freedom! As I shuffled through the hospital’s hallways, I started to feel the contractions a bit more strongly. Despite my hope of the contrary, I was certain that delivery was still a ways off, and my pessimistic suspicion was confirmed when, at 8:30pm, I was only dilated to 4cm.
But God had a plan far more amazing than I could have imagined.
When we returned to the room, the midwife decided to start Pitocin. However, before I was administered any, my nurse interceded on my behalf and asked the midwife if we could postpone Pitocin since I was having consistent contractions. The midwife agreed. Now it was time to see if my body would continue with labor on its own.
And it did!
Our labor and delivery nurse, who used to work in a county hospital, told us that rarely has she ever seen an induction go so smoothy and efficiently. According to her, Ezra’s was a unicorn birth. I prefer to call it a miracle.
Around 10pm, I felt myself entering the transition phase of labor, which, for those who may not have experienced this, is basically the worst stage of pain. Ever. With each contraction, my body would shake, nausea would sweep over me (this was largely due to the fact that I had eaten quite a substantial snack only a mere hour earlier in anticipation of receiving Pitocin), and I would feel more and more inept at this whole giving birth to a baby thing as no position, essential oil, or massage technique provided relief. Finally, I could bear it no more and asked Matt to call for midwife, who, when she checked pronounced me dilated to 9cm. Great. Now please get this baby out of me.
Since my water hadn’t broken, she used an amniotic hook to break it. The midwife then asked me to push with the next contraction. I did, and it was agony. They say that pushing actually provides relief during labor, but that is not the case for me. By this time, the midwife was calling out for supplies, and our room was abuzz with activity. Another contraction came, so I pushed, all the while telling Matt that I was done; I couldn’t handle any more pain, so I guess our kid was going to live inside of me for the rest of his or her life. Of course, my husband reassured me that I could, in fact, do this, and, as I reiterated my concerns with a third push, he excitedly exclaimed, “You’re done! He’s out! You did it, babe.”
At 11:03pm, not even a full 12 hours after labor had been induced, my son was born, healthy, without any complications, and in God’s perfect timing.
And here’s the really beautiful thing: our midwife is a Christian.
I asked God for peace, and He gave it to me. I asked God for Christian staff, and He provided a midwife who beautifully answered that prayer. I asked God for competent and compassionate staff, and He answered, particularly in the form of our nurse, Deena, and our midwife. I asked God to orchestrate this birth experience, and He made it more beautiful than I could have ever imagined.
Ezra means help. Ezra is also the name of a prophet in the Old Testament. A man who spent his life intervening for others before God.
My body needed help to bring this life into the world. Not only did medicine and professionals help, but so did my son, who shot into this world after my mere three pushes.
Ezra’s only 9 days old, but I pray that my son’s entrance into this world is a glimpse into the beautiful and powerful plan that God has for his life. May he bring help to those who need it all the while depending on the help that comes from Christ.
Daffodils and Diapers 