Part 1: My Birth Story

A week and a half ago, I waddled into church and sighed as I plopped heavily into my seat. "How are you?" friends asked sympathetically. "Ready to not be pregnant," I replied. I recounted my most recent doctor's visit, where just 2 days prior, I begged for induction, explaining that I was barely functional. The doctor saw first hand, as toward the end of our routine exam, after just spending 2 minutes on my back, I started getting very dizzy, was unable to breathe and broke out in a sweat. She, too, had that sympathetic look on her face my friends had, but told me that we would need to wait at least another week. As if 39 weeks hadn't been long enough. As if I could possibly endure another jab to my ribs or go through another acid reflux filled sleepless night.

And then late Monday night, things started happening. As I sat on my couch and ate my cinnamon bun while watching Food Network, I felt things shifting. I went to bed thinking braxton hicks, but 2 hours later, it was clear that this was no drill. Still, I sent my husband to work, because my firstborn took 28 hours to make his appearance, and while I expected a shortened labor, I thought it would be closer to 12 hours, and we were just in the beginning. 2 hours later, I called and told him come home, and that we needed to go to the hospital. Bellowing in pain, I woke up my toddler and his crying over whether or not Mama was ok just broke my heart. As his little hand took mine and led me to the car, I thought of my birth plan, wondered if I grabbed everything I needed and was thankful I was able to fill out my insurance information while posturing over our bed. We only live about 12-15 minutes away from the hospital, and I kept telling myself soon, I would have my epidural and be out of this exorbitant amount of pain, as I involuntarily began to cry out, "I can't do this again."

5 minutes into the drive we were on the highway, and as pressure rolled over my legs and back, my water broke. I was so happy because I knew at least I couldn't be turned away. I attempted to manage the pressure as well as I could the next 10 minutes, but my body had started to go rogue, pushing without my consent. My husband raced to the patient unloading station, assuring me the whole way that we were gonna be ok. I got out of the car, but braced against the door as another wave of mind numbing pain paralyzed my legs. "Do you want me to go get help?" My husband asked, with desperation in his eyes. "Yes," I whispered and before I knew it, he and my toddler were gone. In those 60 seconds, our second born decided to make his debut, and I found myself squatting down next to the car, catching him by his ears and cheeks. The rest of him made his way onto my forearm just as nursing students ran over, asking if they could help me. I handed my son over to one as the other laid me down in the parking lot, and saw my husband and toddler amidst a sea of green nursing student uniforms, running in to aid further. They stood back as we were packed with heated blankets amidst what looked like a murder scene. I laid my head back and took a grateful breath and I held my newborn to my chest. My husband was right, everything's was going to be ok.

Azariah Gideon was born 6:40am on a 55° Tuesday morning. His name means God Helps/Mighty Warrior. There is more to the story, but that will come in part 2.