Birth story: “My baby was struggling in my womb, which is why I had to have an emergency cesarean section

Early in the pregnancy, I had resolved not to Google any childbirth stories

Due to all the forums I had scoured in the preceding months, I spent the first weeks just scared of having a miscarriage, and I didn't want to spend the entire pregnancy in fear of something I had minimal influence over. I wanted to be well-prepared. I would give birth in a hospital on medical advice, and if possible, in a birthing pool, but beyond that, I didn't want to know about potential complications or things that could go wrong during the birth of our baby.

Ultimately, I did not have a carefree pregnancy. For 18 weeks I was as sick as a dog, had no energy, and also few sunny thoughts in my head. We did a NIPT, which yielded no result, and neither did a second NIPT, which meant that our baby had an increased risk of all sorts of troubles. After much deliberation, we decided to undergo an amniocentesis. Emotionally and physically, this was the worst week of my life. I found the puncture terrible, but the days after were truly hellish. Constantly, with every cramp, the suffocating fear of losing the precious life in my womb... Brrr. Fortunately, on Friday the relieving call came: Everything was fine with our little girl.

By the second trimester, I developed pelvic pain which made it impossible for me to walk long distances or sit for extended periods, but I felt more at ease as I began to feel the baby. Gradually, I started to pack the hospital bag, but I still didn't want to think too much about the delivery itself. However, I wanted to be well-prepared, so instead of a simple tote with a pajama, my hospital bag started to resemble a semi-migration. I had everything listed and as items went into the bag, they were checked off. The baby's outfits were in ziplock bags with the size written on them so no one would have to search when the time came.

The third trimester began, but instead of being able to lounge on the couch with a good series and a big bowl of chocolate ice cream as I had hoped, I had to meticulously monitor my blood sugar levels with a lancet and also adjust my diet so that I wouldn't have to inject insulin and avoid being induced. Since I'm not a fan of needles (not even the very small ones that you hardly feel), this was quite a challenge and I was increasingly frustrated that I couldn't enjoy my pregnancy carefree during these last weeks. Fortunately, all the effort I put in did have an effect and I was spared from the insulin injections and an induced labor. The days crawled by and eventually the due date came and went. At 41 weeks, there was still no sign of impending labor. I wanted to avoid being induced (because that would mean a medical birth, labor-inducing drugs, and more pain) but we were certainly not willing to take any risks regarding the health of our little girl, so it was time to think about the next step. As we were heading into the weekend and the chance of an induced labor increased with each day, I was referred to the hospital for an intake and a fetal heart rate monitor. It now really seemed that the scenario I dreaded of an induced labor would still unfold. I fervently hoped that my body would start moving on its own.

That night I woke up with cramps in my stomach and felt a wave of relief

"Yes, it has started!" Shortly after, the cramps became more intense, so around 2 a.m. I woke up my husband and started to fill the bathtub. My idea of calmly handling the contractions in the bath quickly passed. The water only made me more restless and I wanted to get back into bed as soon as possible. Once in bed, I built a sort of nest of pillows so I could sigh through each contraction in a semi-squatting position. After a few hours, the contractions came every 5 minutes and lasted at least 1 minute, so it was time to call the midwife. She arrived quickly and found that I was only 2 centimeters dilated. Slightly disappointed, I crawled back onto my pile of pillows and we agreed to get in touch again in the afternoon. Around noon, I noticed that my contractions were taking longer to come. At one point, there was a quarter of an hour and later even 20 minutes between them. Worried, I called the midwife. She promised to come over soon. It still took her well over an hour and a half, while the contractions slowly picked up again. They might have been less frequent, but they were still extremely painful. When she finally arrived, I was still only at 2 centimeters dilation. She suggested that we could wait or that she could break my waters in the hope that the contractions would intensify. By then, I was quite exhausted and the idea of having to endure even more intense contractions in the car on the way to the hospital did not appeal to me. I indicated that I would like to continue in the hospital with the support of an epidural. She thought that was a good idea, so my husband crammed our hospital bags into the car, I squeezed my enormous belly into the passenger seat, and off we went. Of course, we ended up right in the middle of rush hour, and I continued to puff through one contraction after another.

Once at the hospital, we were warmly welcomed in a delivery room by a nurse who gave me an IV and then connected me to various devices with wires, beeps, and lights, making me feel like an upgraded Christmas tree. Enduring contractions in a hospital bed with all those wires attached to you is a lot less comfortable than on my pillow nest at home, and I began to wonder if I had made the right choice coming here. We were waiting for the anesthesiologist who would give me an epidural so we could proceed. I've mentioned my fear of needles before, but all the needles I've seen during pregnancy (even the one for the amniocentesis) paled in comparison to the huge syringe the nurse brought out in preparation for the epidural. The anesthesiologist stormed in like a whirlwind, and it was immediately clear that he had no time for my fears. My bed was pumped a meter into the air, I had to sit up, arch my back like a cat, lean against my husband, and after I puffed away yet another contraction, the needle went into my back. Slowly, my legs began to feel as if they were made of cotton, and I was laid back down straight in bed. Now there was finally peace. I could catch my breath, and my membranes were ruptured. My husband settled on the sofa bed, but I was wide awake, just hoping that my dilation would now progress. Unfortunately, an hour later there was still little progress, and it was decided to administer an IV with oxytocin, the dreaded labor-inducing drugs. Thanks to the epidural, I could initially withstand them well, but as the hours passed and the contractions became stronger due to the medication, the cramps broke through the epidural. After a few hours, I was at 7 centimeters dilation, and another hour later at 9 centimeters. It surely wouldn't be long now.

Meanwhile, the measurements showed that our baby was struggling in my womb. Her heartbeat would sometimes suddenly drop, and the nurses repeatedly repositioned me to see if it would improve. As my dilation finally progressed, the next problem arose: our little girl was not descending enough. She was in the correct position, but remained too high in the uterus, so they wouldn't be able to deliver her with forceps or a vacuum. The contractions were at full strength, and I felt exhausted and increasingly anxious, seeing our daughter's heartbeat continue to show dips from time to time. Staring at the monitor, I wished it would all be over soon. Then the midwife came in and said she wanted to give it another hour, but that we should prepare for a cesarean section. My husband and I looked at each other, and I broke down for a moment: How could it be that after no less than 32 hours of contractions and all that effort, we still ended up here? I pulled myself together. This was the best option. I was so tired that I couldn't see myself going through the pushing phase, and I really didn't want our baby to be in danger. Before I knew it, I was lifted onto another bed and wheeled to the OR, where my husband couldn't join me yet, and I felt a wave of panic. I had once heard about a woman who was anesthetized for her cesarean but felt everything: I really didn't want that! Almost hyperventilating, I lay on the operating table while around me, the staff prepared everything for the cesarean. The young anesthesiologist saw that I was panicking and encouraged me. I was doing so well! The other anesthesiologist distracted me by firing all sorts of nonsensical questions at me. How had we decorated the nursery? I relaxed a bit and remembered again why I was here: we were about to meet our girl, very soon! Suddenly my husband was beside me, and the gynecologist gave the signal to start. After some intense pushing and pulling, the little window in the drape that blocked my view of the people cutting into my belly opened. And there she was. Our little Liv, loudly crying and covered in vernix, but already the most perfect little being on this planet. A quick check with the pediatrician and then she was placed on my chest. It was okay. We were both safe. It was over.

Looking back on how the birth went, this was not a scenario I could have prepared for. I know that my husband and I always made the right decisions. I am incredibly grateful for the doctors and nursing staff who supported us in an involved manner and ensured that I don't have a bad feeling when I think about the birth. Liv and I are healthy and that is ultimately all that really matters.

KIM