Soon after discovering I was pregnant I began to think about labor. I've never thought of myself as someone with a high pain tolerance and I was a little worried.
Like most women I planned to get an epidural.
Spoiler alert: I didn't. And here is why.
You see, as my pregnancy progressed I grew increasingly worried about being induced and less worried about the actual labor bit. My sister had recently given birth to my nephew after being induced, my cousin was induced with her baby, a close friend of mine was induced . . . pretty much everyone was induced. And all of them received epidurals. And everyone had painful labors (yes, all labor is painful, I know that).
Being induced seemed pretty terrible. From all the aforementioned women had told me, the contractions were super close together and wicked painful. When we took the birthing class at our hospital the instructor told us that 85% of women who came through the hospital received one an epidural. The videos made it seem like only hippies and crazy people skipped the pain meds. The instructor highly recommended having a "birth plan" if we wanted to try without drugs. From my perspective, epidural women still came out the other end with a beautiful baby. The women who went without didn't receive a star on the mom-walk-of-fame. Skipping pain meds didn't guarantee you a happier, healthier baby and I left class thinking I'd be part of that 85%.
Before the birthing class I had thought maybe I'd only get one if I was induced. But since I wasn't interested in making a birth plan (the idea of making a plan for something with so many unknown variables seemed pretty damn stupid to me) and everyone else was doing it, I threw my hands up and said sure thing.
Flash forward to 1 a.m. on a Friday morning (three days before my August 4th due date). I wake up to pee. I get back in bed. Twenty minutes later I swear I peed my pants. So I use the bathroom, change my underwear and hop back in to bed. After all my worrying and anxiety about induction it it took a while to dawn on me that my water probably broke. It didn't matter to me that my doctor had checked my cervix that day and I was dilated 3 centimeters. My sister was dilated at 3 cm for weeks before still needing induced. Genes are everything, right?
Walking to the bathroom for the third time to change my underwear, a distinct fluid trickles down my leg. I hop in to the shower and stand there, nervously laughing with my now awake husband. We called labor and delivery and by 3 a.m. we were checked in to triage where they confirm I am indeed leaking amniotic fluid. This step seemed pretty unnecessary to me . . . I'd lost a hell of a lot of fluid by the time I'd stepped out of the shower to leave for the hospital.
Once we were moved from triage to a labor and delivery suite my contractions started without much fuss. Don't get me wrong, they hurt like the dickens, but not nearly as badly as I'd anticipated. As someone with no soft spot in my heart for needles or hospitals in general, I was surprised by my own ease at the whole experience. J would say I'm downplaying my own strength, but the contractions weren't as difficult as I thought they would be. I don't really know how else to put it. The pattern was pretty irregular and our labor and delivery nurse (who deserves her own post of praise) was continually pleased with my progress and ability to tolerate pain. Sure, J and I didn't come in with a "birth plan" to deal with pain, but we'd always worked really well together. J was constantly at my side helping me breathe and focus on something else. We walked the halls together, tried various positions, and put heat on my back.
Eventually we talked to the anesthesiologist on call. She was shocked to learn I was almost 7 cm dilated and was not only standing and talking to her, but had yet to have any pain meds. When she explained the epidural process to us, she also told us that receiving one is a very American thing to do. Worldwide the rates for receiving one are much lower than here. Though she didn't tell us anything surprising, we weren't convinced an epidural was necessary.
Maybe it was the way J was looking at me, maybe it was a result of sudden inner mom strength, or maybe it was the fact that I was impressing the staff, but whatever it was I knew an epidural wasn't for me.
Please don't take this to mean I've become a naturalistic hippie who hates modern medicine. The next time I have a baby could be totally different and I might be in excruciating pain. But for little baby Helen, I simply didn't need it. Did I cry for my mom during the two hours of pushing? Did I pray and wish for it to be over? Of course. But I made it through and now I'm oddly proud of myself. Or, rather, I'm proud of us. Because I'm sure I couldn't have done it alone.
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