Our Birth Story: Tank

Bristol Hospital, where Tank was born.

This is the 2nd in a series of 3 posts. This is Tank's birth story, as best as I can remember it 9 years later.

2002 was the beginning of a series of rough years for our family. By then, Mr. P. and I were engaged to be married, raising our toddler son, and really struggling to find our feet as independent adults. Due to MonkeyMan's traumatic birth, I found myself unable to stand upright much of the time without excruciating pain, and thus unable to work. Even though Mr. P. worked full time, we were still on welfare. We lived in a one bedroom apartment downtown, and did what we could to have a "normal" life. Unfortunately, we both come from childhood backgrounds that did not fully prepare us for family life and responsibility. In late August of that year, we found ourselves homeless.
In a panic and not knowing who to call for help, I contacted our DSS (welfare) worker. She was able to get us 2 months stay in a local hotel covered. I will be forever grateful to her for arranging that. It gave us a bit of calm before the storm. We moved into the hotel room in the next town over, and tried to come up with a solution to our problems. Because we did not have a car to get him there and no public transportation available, Mr. P. lost his job. We soon found out that because we had no permanent address or phone number, he could not find a new job. That led to being unable to find a new apartment because we had no income and no permanent way to contact us. So much for starting over fresh in this new town.

In the first 2 weeks of our homelessness, when we were trying to get into the shelter, we learned that because we were unmarried, we would not be allowed to stay together as a family. Although we had been planning our wedding for the following year, we decided to take the plunge in order to keep us all together. September 6, 2002 we were wed at city hall. It was a mere 3 days from deciding to marry to exchanging vows. Despite all the stress we were under and the simple venue, I would never want to change a thing. It was just so...us.
Between the huge stress level and an illness I was struggling with, I did not even give it a second thought when my menstrual cycle stopped about a month later. Stress has always impacted my cycle in odd ways, and my then-doctor assured me I could not become pregnant. I had so very much to keep my mind occupied. Pregnancy was never even a blip on my radar. Honestly, at that point, I never wanted another child. The thought of enduring another c-section made my blood run cold. The exhaustion, tummy troubles, and odd cravings were chalked up to stress and my illness.
As our 2 free months neared its end, we decided our best option was to use our cash assistance to buy as many more weeks as we could. My mother kicked in to help us, and we ultimately bought 2 additional months. We knew it couldn't last long, and each night we called to see if any of the shelters we could reasonably get to had any openings. None ever did. We had a few friends who offered to take us in for a night or 2 here and there, but no prospects for a longer term solution. Ultimately, we ended up having to part ways. MonkeyMan and I stayed where we could, some nights with my mom or friends. Mr. P. was taken in by his mother. Neither of our mothers liked their new in-laws very much, and both refused to take in our little family as a whole.
In our final week in the hotel, I jokingly challenged Mr. P. to take a pregnancy test with me. You can imagine our shock at the little positive symbol on my test. Neither of us could even begin to guess at how far along I was or what to do next. We spent many nights after MonkeyMan was asleep discussing our options. For us, it kept coming back to this: "We already have 1 child. What's 1 more?". It was not easy to choose life for our very unexpected child, given our situation. We kept telling ourselves that none of this was permanent, and abortion is a very permanent choice to often temporary troubles.
We had lost much in our swift move to the hotel. We had stashed what we could in my mother's Public Storage space. After realizing I would need prenatal care, reality sank in. We had lost our insurance cards in our frantic departure. DSS would not issue new ones for us because we had no permanent address. No doctor or medical group would take me on without that precious little card. I chose to do my own prenatal care as best I could until we found a home. Somehow it never occurred to me that we would not find one in time for the new baby's arrival.
When we returned to our home town, staying with friends and relatives, Mr. P. did something I am still proud of to this day. He took a job at the gas station he'd been working in when we first met. He hated it there so much, but it was money for our family. More importantly, it would open up a way to get ourselves a new apartment. Much to our delight, within a month of starting there, he met the customer who would become our new landlord. We were willing to take anything he had open. Some roof over our heads was certainly better than none. We moved into our new 1 bedroom apartment in February 2003. At that point, I was about 5 months pregnant by my best guess. I was beginning to wonder if I would end up delivering alone.
The following month, we finally got our new insurance cards but I was frozen with fright. Not even the Lord Himself could compel me to return to the doctors who had cared for me during my last pregnancy. I frequented the library across the street, reading all I could about birth, particularly VBAC (vaginal birth after cesarean). I asked around for suggestions for a good local OB. So many women gave glowing recommendations for a local midwifery group that I decided to find out if they were an option. Although they took Medicaid, they were not currently accepting new patients.
Finding out about midwives made me further research what had happened to me specifically during my last birth. I wondered how things ended up being so horrible when birth was supposed to be utterly magical. I felt not only betrayed by my former care providers, but I came to hate myself for just how willfully ignorant about birth I was. The doctors I had chosen were not OBs as I assumed. They were simply family general practice physicians. That explained why my doctor could not do my c-section, why what I suspect was the beginnings of preeclampsia was dismissed and ignored, and why I felt there was no true informed consent. I began to desperately want a midwife attended VBAC more than anything I'd ever before wanted in life.
A quick call to my insurance company confirmed that the only local providers accepting new Medicaid patients was the hospital-based women's clinic. Feeling completely dejected, I called to make an appointment. I explained my situation to the lady on the phone, letting her know that I did not know how far along I was but it must be fairly far because of fetal movement. I was to be seen in 3 weeks, the soonest they could get me in.
Mr. P. fully supported my desire to have a VBAC. He saw first hand how awful our first son's birth was, and understood why I never wanted to experience that again. I had a wonderful friend supporting me, encouraging me that I could do this. I admit I was fairly defensive when I went into the clinic for my 1st appointment. I was prepared to go absolutely guano-psychotic on anyone who got in the way of my dream birth. Nothing could've prepared me for what I discovered at that appointment. The midwifery group I so wanted to hire also gave time to the women's clinic! I could have a midwife! My VBAC was surely at hand.
We had an ultrasound to estimate my due date. Because I had not paid the least bit of attention to when my last period was, nor when I noticed pregnancy symptoms, we really had nothing to go off of. The best guess they gave me was sometime at the end of June or beginning of July. I was warned that I would need at least 2 more ultrasounds before the end of my pregnancy to be as certain as we could of when we might expect the baby to make his or her debut.
I really enjoyed the care I received from the midwives. I felt like a human being, and was never treated as though I did not know my own body. I was encouraged to keep up with the exercise I had been getting, and to continue to eat well. All told, I gained 12 pounds by the end of my pregnancy. I was also encouraged to come up with a birth plan that I was promised would be shared with all the nursing staff when I went into labor. It was such a blast to write our wishes down, and know we were being heard. We decided that none of our family would be allowed to be present until the day after our baby's birth. We did not want the staff to defer to my mother like in our last birth experience.
I was convinced we were having a girl. The pregnancies were so different! We had our final ultrasound scheduled for when I was 38 weeks pregnant. The tech was able to determine our baby's gender. I was floored to learn we were having a second son. We had no boy names picked! Thankfully, it only took a day to come up with one we both liked.
Because I was induced with our oldest son, I did not anticipate going into labor on my own before my due date. I didn't bother to pack a bag to have waiting. I was prepared to go however long it took to experience a natural labor and birth. We did not have much ready for this new baby. Living paycheck to paycheck, we had budgeted the final 2 checks of the month of June for baby gear. Needless to say, I was astounded when I went into labor in the wee hours of June 21, 2003.
I didn't want to believe it at first. It felt like nothing compared to my induced contractions. I called my dear friend, who said it sounded like labor to her. We dropped MonkeyMan off at my mother's, and went up to the hospital just to check. I was utterly convinced we'd be sent home with a false alarm. After a few hours on the monitors, I was told that yes, it was definitely early labor. YESSSSSS!! I did it! My body knew how to begin labor! I was elated! We were told to go home and rest while we could because it wouldn't be long until the show really got started. They gave me a pill to help me sleep, and said that they'd probably see us back tomorrow for our birth. We called my mom, who said she'd keep our son overnight so I could rest up. Mr. P. worked 3rd shift then and went off to work as he normally did, aware that he may get a call at anytime to come home. I took the pill and tried to sleep.
You never forget the feeling of your water breaking. It's like someone zinged a rubber band deep inside you. I sat bolt upright at 5am. That sensation is what woke me. I dashed into the kitchen, amniotic fluid pouring down. I slid in the water and crashed into the fridge. Awesome. Although my ankle hurt pretty badly, I could not stop laughing. This was it! My body was not broken! I could do this!
I first called Mom to tell her that today was definitely baby day. Then I called Mr. P. to let him know to meet me at the hospital when he got out at 7am. I finally called the clinic. Because I was attempting a VBAC, they wanted me to come right in if my water broke. The man from the answering service seemed to not understand what I was explaining. I told him my water broke, and asked if I should come down to the hospital. He questioned if my water actually broke. I told him to ask my kitchen floor. He said I needed to have someone drive me the 3 blocks to the hospital. After explaining that there was no way I was waking up anyone I knew with a car at 5:30 in the morning to bring up there, he said I would have no choice but to call 911 for a ride. I sighed and hung up on him. I called Mr. P. and explained the situation. He did not want me walking alone up to the hospital, so I did end up calling 911. How embarrassing! I told the dispatcher that I would be waiting outside because I did not want to continue dripping amniotic fluid on my floor. I took one of MonkeyMan's diapers and stuffed in my pajamas, locked the door, and went outside to wait. Minutes later, the ambulance pulled up. The 2 men inside looked somewhat terrified. One shouted, "Do you feel the urge to push, ma'am?". Um, no. I explained that I was simply in labor and was advised by the on-call service to call for a ride to the hospital. They loaded me up, and quickly made the 2 minute drive to the hospital. I was carted right up to the maternity unit, and released from the stretcher.
I was put on the monitors for about half an hour, then set free of those awful straps. My nurse for that shift came in, introduced herself, and asked for some more details about my birth plan. She told me I could eat and drink pretty much as I pleased and had free access to the awesome shower in my room if I wanted. Since I had specified that I did not want pain relief, she said she would be glad to help with different techniques to help ride out the contractions. The midwife on-call from the clinic came in, asked if I wanted checked, and asked if I needed her support until my husband could arrive. I said I was fine on my own, but if that changed, I would let her know. Just like last time, I was having back labor but it was nowhere near as awful as before. It was easy to breathe through the pain, and I felt so very aware and in charge.
Mr. P. arrived as soon as he could, around 9am. We walked the halls together with our nurse. She showed him how to apply counter pressure to my back during contractions. During each contraction I would stop walking, make low moans, and just follow my instincts to sway my hips through the pain. Our nurse said, "That's perfect! Just listen to what your body is saying. You've got this! You're a natural!". It was such a stark contrast from last time. I was supported, allowed the freedom to move, and truly encouraged. I felt completely in control, and it was magnificent!
I would walk, then use a wonderful heating pad on my back (sheer bliss!), walk some more, grab something to drink, use the restroom, and deeply considered the shower. Around 4pm, I was checked for dilation. Everyone assumed and hoped I'd be nearing the end. It was crushing to find out that after over 24 hours of natural labor, I was only at 3cm. Same as before. I tried not to panic at the thought of another surgery. I cried, and my support team comforted me. The OB on the floor came to see me. She asked to check my cervix. After confirming that I was indeed only at 3cm, she gave me a few options. They wanted to insert an internal catheter to see just how hard I was contracting. Between being unable to "get a good read" because of my obesity, and how easily I seemed to be handling labor, they wondered if my contractions were not hard enough to keep my body opening up. I was explained the risks and benefits quite clearly. I was told that because of how painful the catheter insertion could be, an epidural was recommended. After discussing it with Mr. P., I decided to allow the epi and internal monitor. It felt almost surreal to be in control of my body and my medical decisions. Empowering doesn't even begin to describe it!
After everything was in place, we found out that I was contracting quite well. I was offered a bit of pitocin, again having all the risks and possible benefits laid out. I asked to think on it a bit, and took an hour long nap instead. When I woke, there was still no change. I chose to try the pitocin, having been assured it would only be a small amount because of my prior c-section status. A few hours later around 9pm, I was checked once again. Still only a 3. The doctor sat with us, and laid out our options. We were welcome to continue laboring, hopefully getting some sleep, and maybe by morning I would have made progress. Or, only if I wanted to, she could do a repeat cesarean. She said she'd leave us to discuss it, and come back in a half hour to see if we needed more info or have made a choice. I looked over at Mr. P. and saw just how worn out he was from being up longer than I had. I felt so tired, and I was so ready to meet my baby. Our nurse came in and asked if I wanted to just talk. I think everyone knew how emotionally charged this whole birth was for me. I told her I felt like I had failed once again. Why couldn't my body birth my baby? She said I had no reason to feel like a failure. I had given it my all, and done so well. She said to take a few moments to just listen to my body and follow my instincts. I then realized that going with the repeat c-section was what I wanted to do.
The doctor was notified, the OR and myself prepped, and soon it would begin. Mr. P. asked if I was certain I was ok with it. Truly, I was. Every choice along the way had been mine alone to make. I was respected, encouraged, and supported the whole time. I felt at peace, knowing I had tried my hardest. Although I was frightened about the surgery, I was relieved to know it would soon be over.
I was brought back to the OR, my epi juiced up, and Mr. P. joined me. Unlike our first birth, I felt no pain at all, and there was laughter and talking in the room. At one point during the surgery, Dr. B. remarked to the room about the amount of abscess material at my previous c-section site. She promised to fix it all for me. The anesthesiologist asked if Mr. P. wanted to stand up and watch our baby's birth. He had been giving us a "play by play" account of what was going on, which I absolutely loved.
It seemed just a short while before cheers of "It's a boy!" filled the room. Tank was held up, fresh from my womb for us to see. The little stinker was frowning at us! There was laughter all around at our newest blessing's expression. Mr. P. went with the baby and our regular pediatrician for his first exam. While I was being fixed and put back together, they needed some kind of pad for my wound that no one could find in the room. From my vantage point, it was easy to see them in a nearby cabinet. More laughter was shared by all as I pointed out where they needed to look. It was truly a joyous birth.
The next day, I felt beyond amazing. All the pain and horrible pulling I had lived with for the 26 months between my sons' births was gone. I could stand straight comfortably! I had energy, and little pain. I can still say that was my easiest recovery of my 3 births. Even though it was 9 years ago, I can still clearly remember the birth high I had for a good year after. Although it was not what I had planned, it was absolutely amazing. I felt healed, physically and emotionally, from my oldest's traumatic birth. Each choice was mine! That still amazes me.
My second born son is now 9 years old, and is such a joy in our lives. He's got such an incredible sense of humor, and I love knowing that he entered this world riding the waves of laughter that he so loves. I'm so glad his birth went down exactly as it did. It taught me I was stronger than I thought, and was pretty good at rolling with the punches. I did not feel like I had failed either of us. It changed the way I saw birth, and how medical care can be.