“Andy, I’m scared. I’m scared. What if I can’t do it? What if I push and push and the baby won’t come out? What if they take me back for another c-section? I can’t…”
I lost my breath as a contraction shot through my body, and let out a yell instead of finishing my sentence.
“What? You’ve been doing amazing this entire time and now that its time to push, you’re scared? You’ve got this! You already did the hard part!”
“No, no I can’t! I can’t do it! They’ll take me back again and cut the baby out. I can’t do it!”
“You look at me. Look at me right now. Tell me what your tattoo says. What does it say?”
“No. I won’t say it. I can’t say it; it isn’t true.”
I couldn’t bear to say St. Joan of Arc’s words, “I am not afraid, I was born to do this.”
I couldn’t say it and then end up in another emergency c-section.
I was terrified if I repeated her mantra and failed, I would never be able to use those words as comfort again.
“You say it or I will. I am not afraid, I was born to do this.”
With each contraction the pain rushed through every limb and muscle, and all I could manage to say was, “I’m okay.”
I had to hear myself say it. Mind over matter.
“I’m okay, I’m okay, I’m okay…I’m ready to push. I feel it. It’s time.”
The nurse looked at me, puzzled. “If you think you’re ready, we can try, but you’ll probably be pushing for a couple of hours, at least. Most first vaginal births take a while, why don’t you rest for a bit…”
“No, I need to push, NOW.”
My husband grabbed my hand, held the back of my head with his other, and began to pray.
“Hail Mary, full of Grace, the Lord is with Thee…”
“I’m okay.”
I squeezed my husband’s hand until the skin on my knuckles turned white and blue.
“…blessed art Thou among women and blessed is the fruit of Thy womb, Jesus…”
“I’m okay.”
The next contraction was coming. I could feel it, rumbling deeply in my lower back, beginning as a dull throb; then instantaneously tearing through my abdomen with enormous speed.
“…Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners, now and at the hour of our death, Amen.”
“I’m okay.”
Deep breath in, use my thighs as anchors to curl myself in half and push, push, push, STOP! I slammed back into the bed, gasping for breath as the next contraction built up. The nurse helped my husband hold my legs steady as the doctor rushed into the room. The doctor’s face was flush from running, but his smile was unwavering. As he sat down at the edge of the bed, he asked with his booming voice, “are ya’ll ready to meet this baby?”
“The next contraction is coming!” I pulled myself up with Andy’s hand, ready to push, and felt his hand on the nape of neck. He repeated the Hail Mary, and with every line, I responded, “I’m okay.”
We went back and forth over and over again, each word of the Hail Mary bringing our child into the world.
“The head is out! Do we still think it’s a boy?” the doctor asked Andy. We chose not to know our baby’s gender, and were anxiously waiting to find out if we had another little girl or our first boy.
“Oh I still think it’s a boy!” replied Andy, as he helped me sit up one more time for the final push.
“I’m okay,” I breathed through my clenched teeth and gave that last push every ounce of strength I had left.
“It’s a girl!” the doctor yelled, and we heard the rest of the hospital floor clap and yell in congratulations.
Andy and I stared at each other, in awe of those words. A girl. We had another perfect, delicate daughter to love.
The doctor placed our daughter on my chest, and I held her tight, kissing her forehead and holding her fingers. All I could manage to say to her was,
“Hi, hunny. We did it.”
Twelve hours of labor and twenty-five minutes of pushing. That’s all it took to have our sweet Josephine Mae.
I cannot explain to you the complete euphoria of having a successful vaginal birth after a cesarean (VBAC). The experience was terrifying, yet healing. My fear of a VBAC wasn’t due to potential uterine rupture or loss of life. I know what you’re thinking, what in the world could be scarier than those two things?
For me, and my stubborn nature, it was the fear of failure. I was not afraid of destroying my body, or losing my life, or losing our baby–because I fully trusted my doctor and most importantly, I learned to trust myself.
With our first daughter, I labored for twenty-five hours on pitocin, seventeen of which were without pain medication. I finally begged for an epidural at seven centimeters dilated. A few hours later, I had made it to eight centimeters, but my body was worn out; I hadn’t eaten in nearly two days, nor had I any water, only ice chips.
My waters had been broken for over twenty-four hours. I developed an infection, my cervix began to close, and our baby was in distress. My wish for an all-natural, medication-free birth was destroyed from the moment labor began, and while it was difficult for me to accept medication, I was not prepared to accept emergency surgery.
Genevieve Therese came out perfectly healthy, despite the long labor and cord wrapped around her neck. I was physically healthy, and healed in normal time. My emotional and mental healing, however, took much longer.
One year, four months, and two weeks, to be exact. The moment Josephine Mae arrived.
Most people’s reaction to my first birth story is, “Well, healthy momma, healthy baby. That’s all that matters.” And while at its core that statement is true, it is not entirely accurate.
I am physically still here. I didn’t die in labor. Genevieve didn’t suffer any type of injury during birth. I should be grateful. And believe me, I am. I recognize there are plenty of women who go through labor and delivery and do not go home with their child. I recognize there are plenty of spouses who go home with a new family member, but lost another. Their suffering doesn’t escape me.
Their suffering makes me feel foolish for my own.
For months after Genevieve’s birth, I was plagued with severe anxiety. I had gruesome, detailed nightmares nearly every night, all of which ended up with our daughter dead due to my inability to protect her.
When I was awake, I had visions of awful things happening to her. I felt like I had to constantly have her within my sight, so I never slept when she did. I set alarms throughout the night to check on her, just in case.
I was terrified of carseats and bouncers. I was convinced (still am) that my baby would suffocate in them due to a newborn’s lack of head and neck control. If I looked away for one second, that would be the moment Genevieve dropped her chin to her chest and cut off her airways. I just knew it.
I was terrified of her suddenly forgetting how to breathe. I was constantly checking her fingernails and lips for any sign of turning blue. I would take pictures of her little face in different types of lighting and send them to my husband, convinced her mouth was turning blue and can’t you see what I see? You don’t see that light shade of blue around the corners of her mouth? I’m not crazy, I can see it! She’s not breathing right!
It didn’t matter that I was literally watching her little chest move up and down, indicating oxygen was making its way to her and carbon dioxide was exiting. Something had to be wrong with her.
How could she tell me if something was wrong? How was I supposed to know if her little lungs were okay? What about SIDS? Should I order one of those expensive, still-in-the-trial period oxygen monitors? No, because what if it gave false alarms–that would just worsen my anxiety. And then I wouldn’t be able to tell the difference between a false alarm and a real problem, and then it would be my fault if I ignored the monitor and something really was wrong…
BUT, what if we don’t get an oxygen monitor and she stops breathing one day? Won’t I always wish I had purchased one? If I had, it would have warned me something was wrong and I could have saved her?
BUT, no. I’m not buying one. This is ridiculous. She sleeps right next to me!
I would tell Andy, “I’m terrified one day I’m going to wake up, and she won’t.”
I hated my body. Not just in the “baby weight” way. I hated my body because in my eyes, it didn’t work. Sure, it nourished and grew my baby. But it turned into a death trap the moment it was time for her arrival. It took nearly a week for my milk to come in. By the time it did, Genevieve had been losing weight at a concerning rate. My body had betrayed me. I couldn’t even birth my own daughter. Had I starved her for a week while waiting for milk? What was wrong with me?
At the urging of my mother, I had my thyroid levels tested. Turns out, my thyroid was basically non-functioning. My hormones were completely out of whack, more so than most postpartum women, and it had been fourth months since her birth. My hormones should have leveled themselves out by then.
Four months. Four terrifying months of thinking I was severely mentally ill. Four months of paralyzing fear of losing my baby.
It took several more months of doctor visits and medication to get my thyroid back to normal, so the paranoia, fear, and sadness continued for awhile.
My sweet Momma gave my emotions and worries a name: post-traumatic stress. Hearing another mother, especially my own, acknowledge my mental burden as real and difficult was the start of my healing.
To be told there is a name for your problem and we can fix it meant the world to me. I didn’t realize how badly I needed acknowledgement. I needed someone, anyone, to listen to me, and to recognize my pain as legitimate.
The phrase “healthy mom, healthy baby” felt like a knife through my gut. Instead of hearing the sentiment behind it, I heard, “You’re alive, the baby is alive. Get over yourself.”
I believed it. I believed the lies my brain insisted were the truth: I had to get over myself. I was being dramatic. I was making myself miserable. I needed to recognize I had my baby, and others lost theirs. I needed to just stop thinking those awful thoughts and force myself out of this funk. Self-pity isn’t pretty. C-sections happen every day. Natural births are just a stupid fad. I was ignorant to think I could have a baby without an epidural. I don’t need help from a therapist or anyone else, because I’m self-inflicting this pain. I’m throwing a temper-tantrum because I didn’t get what I wanted.
On top of all of the nightmares, visions, and fear, I was busy convincing myself it was self-induced. I was in control. I can’t possibly tell anyone I feel this way; they’ll tell me to get over myself.
Eventually, those thoughts disappeared, with the help of thyroid medication, constant family support, and prayer. My aunt, mother to five girls, gave me the best advice:
“Whenever you find yourself having one of those scary thoughts, pray to St. Michael. Repeat the prayer over and over again until it goes away.”
And sure enough, I did. I would clutch Genevieve in my arms, tears streaming down my face, voice shaking, and beg St. Michael to take it away. If it didn’t work by the end of the prayer, I immediately repeated it. I would say it louder and louder until I was practically screaming it. It took multiple tries, but eventually, it became second nature to call on St. Michael the Archangel.
I still do. Every time an anxious thought appears in my head, I pray to him. I say it out loud, with conviction. Each time, without fail, he saves me.
When I found out I was pregnant only eight months after having Genevieve, I wasn’t afraid. A little shocked and worried, yes. But not afraid.
This time, I didn’t ask things of my doctor, I demanded them. This time, I accepted the epidural immediately; I never planned on natural delivery.
This time, I did my research. I accepted a c-section as a possibility, and I knew if it had to happen, I would survive. I did once before; I could do it again. I think this was the key to my success–acceptance. I wasn’t adamant that I wouldn’t end up in surgery again; rather, I anticipated it. But I wasn’t going to let that happen without fighting, first.
I didn’t fight alone. I had an army.
In a twist of beautiful irony and fate, two different prayers prayed under two different circumstances collided during the birth of my second daughter. The Hail Mary has always been used as a prayer of hope in my life–a prayer I say regularly, multiple times a day, for nearly everything. The St. Michael the Archangel prayer is reserved for my deepest anxieties, and has only become a regular part of my prayer life since the birth of my first child.
While my husband was praying the Hail Mary out loud, I was silently praying to St. Michael. Andy called on Mary with hope, while I called on an Archangel for protection.
When I think back on that day eight weeks ago, I see the delivery room as a fly on the wall. I see myself in the hospital bed, legs in stirrups, crying and shaking with adrenaline and fear. I see my husband gripping my hand and cradling my head. I see the doctor and nurses at my feet, urging me to push.
I see Mother Mary at the bottom of the bed, arms spread wide, with a gentle smile on Her face. She is helping my body and the baby’s body to work together, just as she and her Son once did. I see St. Michael at the head of the bed, standing behind me, wings wrapped around my upper body in a shield. His hands are folded on the grip of his sword, his forehead pressed against his hands in prayer.
I truly believe Josephine Mae’s birth was an orchestrated event, guided by the loving hands of Mary and kept safe by the brute strength of St. Michael.
But the trust I had in myself? My belief that my body was not broken, but powerful? That came from the saint my husband had demanded I quote when I felt fearful: St. Joan of Arc.
While I refused to say her words (and my tattoo) out loud for fear of failing, I said them in my head. Over and over again.
“I am not afraid, I was born to do this.”
I was born to be a mother. I am a mother. I am a woman, my body can do this. God made me for this.
Without St. Joan of Arc’s determination, I would have ended up in another c-section. She gave me the strength to defy the nurse and tell her it was time to push. She gave me the courage to listen to my body and my baby, and to ignore everyone else.
I brought my army, and I won.
Who do you call upon when it’s time to fight?
A Surge of the Heart 