It seemed like the minute the words came out of my mouth they were prepping me for an epidural. I didn’t want it, not really, but I was too exhausted to say anything and too defeated to fight. Instead I just stood there, battling each contraction as they came – hoping to dear God that someone would speak up for me. They didn’t. It seemed that everyone, save for me, thought the epidural was a solid plan. So, when the nurse finally asked, I just nodded my head. Sure, I would take the epidural.

As soon as we decided to go ahead with the epidural, reassurances starting coming our way. One nurse told me that I needed to rest.  Another said that my baby was distressed and would benefit from a more relaxed mother.

I was told all kinds of things.

Even in the moments they were spoken, I knew they were lies. I didn’t need to rest, I needed to labor for my child. I knew I was strong enough to do it. But despite my convictions, I couldn’t seem to spit out the words necessary to convince anyone of anything . Instead, I just sat there, mouth shut, feeling even more defeated than before.

After  just a few minutes of waiting, the Anesthesiologist arrived and my husband left the room. I was asked to lean over as far as I could and to stay perfectly still. I did as I was asked, bending as far as my contracting belly would allow. I stayed as still as a statue even as the pain of the ever strengthening contractions came over me. I was trying to hold on to the littlest bit of pride I had left. I wanted everyone to know, including myself, that I was not as weak as I seemed – even if I was crying.

I rushed to wipe the tears from my eyes before my husband or the nurse returned to the room. The anesthesiologist gave me a forced  and somewhat sympathetic smile before leaving the room. I hated her. She had robbed me of the natural birth of my daughter. I know it was irrational. She was just doing her job and I guess I shouldn’t have faulted her for that – but I did.

After the epidural was placed, I was told to lay down. And just like that, the pain from the contractions disappeared. I was asleep before I even realized I was tired.

When I woke up, I was faced with a harsh reality. The baby’s heart rate was dropping and my labor had failed to progress at all. I was nearly out of my 24 hour allowance and needed to make a decision. I could continue to try and labor for another hour or two, or I could have a C-section. My OB urged me to consider the latter as the safest option since my daughter’s heart rate dropped on the charts every time I had a contraction. He just didn’t see how my situation was going to change enough in the next 120 minutes.

My husband, the midwife, and the nurse were sympathetic enough, but ultimately agreed with the doctor. Feeling like I had no other option and fearful for the health of my daughter, I agreed to the Caesarean.

They wheeled me into the operating room and strapped down my arms and legs. The area where the incision was going to be made was cleaned and the Anesthesiologist was brought in once more to make sure that I couldn’t feel a thing. I was hysterical throughout the entire process, finding it difficult to catch my breath or even to look anyone in the eye. I was mourning the loss of my birthing experience.

Less than 30 minutes after I had agreed to have the C-section, my daughter was brought into this world. She was beautiful, even covered in all that blood. As soon as I looked into her eyes my heart filled with more love than I thought possible. The tears of agony and disappointment turned to joy just from the sight of her. My husband, shedding his own joyful tears, whispered in my ear, “That is our baby girl.” He reached out and held my hand tightly in his. Looking back to my daughter, my daughter, I lost total control of my emotions, tears freely flowing. One look at her had made it all worth it.

I had heard from my mother (more times than I could count) that induced labor was much more painful than natural labor. So, when they started the pitocin drip, I braced for myself for what I was sure to be unbelievable pain. But, just like before they started the drip, absolutely nothing happened. I didn’t feel the slightest cramp or dilate even the tiniest bit. I again, found myself sitting in the hospital bed waiting for my birthing experience to begin. My midwife would come in periodically and look at the machine that was monitoring the baby, my contractions and the amount of pitocin entering my body. Every time she popped into the room she would turn the pitocin knob up slightly and tell me that I was “doing great”. The truth was, I wasn’t really doing anything at all and neither was she. But that all changed after she increased the pitocin for the third time.

The contractions hit me like a ton of bricks and they only got worse as the night progressed. From the get-go they were long and intense and the time between them was short. They were horrible, just like my mom had said they would be. But, even in the pain, I knew they were worth it. As insane as it sounds, I was happy to be laboring for my child. I couldn’t wait to bring her into the world. And, so what if I had a little trouble getting the whole labor thing started naturally? I was on my way now and I was going to do this. I was going to give birth to my beautiful daughter the way that nature intended – vaginally.

In all, I labored for 12 hours. Standing up, laying down, on my knees and rocking- I was putting everything I had into each contraction and keeping my fingers crossed that the next time they checked me I would be ready to push. But, every time they would check me, I could tell by the expression on my midwifes face that wasn’t the news I was going to get – far from it. Each check ended with the same news. I was completely exhausted, nearly defeated, and was still 1.5 cm dilated and barely effaced. In short, I wasn’t making any progress at all. Not a lick.

It was at this point that I found myself confessing to my husband that I was beginning to lose my will. Every time they told me that I hadn’t made any progress, a bit of my strength faded away. After 12 hours, I barely had any left. I needed reassurance. I needed the best pep talk of all time – not just from my husband, but from everyone. I needed my doctor, midwife, and nurse to tell me that I could do this. They needed to tell me that I was made for this and I that I just needed to be strong for a little while longer.

But, that wasn’t the message I got. Not from one of them. 

So, let me just start by saying that I didn’t plan on any of this happening the way it did. I didn’t plan on my water leaking, induced labor or an epidural. I was so confident that I wasn’t going to get a caesarean that I didn’t even bother to read up on. So, it is needless to say, that when my birthing plan started to fall apart I did too. But, I am getting ahead of myself. Let’s start where we left off. (Miss part one? check out the link below)

Within 30 minutes of our arrival at the hospital I found out that today, was indeed, the day I was going to meet my daughter. The dampness in my underwear, was in-fact, amniotic fluid and my water was technically broken (although it was more like leaking). I was assigned a birthing room and a nurse and I couldn’t have been more excited to finally be going in to labor! I couldn’t wait to put my natural birthing techniques into practice.

But nothing happened. No contractions, no dilation, no labor. For almost four hours, nothing happened. But, I wasn’t too concerned. My baby could come when she was good and ready. I was happy to wait all night – that is until I talked to the midwife from my OB’s office.

Apparently, once your water breaks (at least in the hospital) an invisible timer goes off. I had 24 hours to begin active labor before the doctors thought that my risk of infection or other complications outweighed the risks of a caesarean.

This made me more than a little bit anxious.

I knew from my birthing classes that every intervention during labor increased the likelihood of needing another one and ultimately of needing a surgical birth. I panicked at the mere thought of that outcome. I began to do the math. I had already spent 3 hours at the house before coming to the hospital and had just spend 5 hours sitting in the birthing room making absolutely zero progress. I was only 1.5cm dilated and had been for almost two weeks. The chances of a natural birth were starting to look pretty grim but I wasn’t quite ready to throw in the towel just yet.

For the next hour or two I did everything I could to try and take my mind off of my labor so that I could relax (which I had heard, of course, would help labor progress). But, nearly two hours later, when the nurse midwife came in to check me again absolutely, positively nothing had changed.

Turns out (at least in the opinion of my midwife) that my water wasn’t meant to have broken (gotten leaky) at all. And now, we would have to force labor to begin if we wanted to give ourselves enough time to deliver vaginally. When I asked her if that meant what I thought it did, she just nodded. And, because I was excited and scared and anxious to meet my daughter, I nervously agreed. This was it, I was going to be induced.

A black car slowed down and pulled up to the curb. A woman inside rolled her window down and gave me an over-dramatic frown. She pointed to my belly and shook her head back and forth, slowly. Obviously she disapproved. I glanced down at my considerable belly and gave it a little rub.

The women, who I had seen at the dog park a couple of times with her Shelties, offered me a ride home (three times). I politely declined her offer (three times) before giving her a forced smile and little wave goodbye. She pulled away from the curb and continued on her way. The minute she was out of sight, my fake smile turned into one of contempt. I knew that the lady had meant well, but I couldn’t help but feel annoyed at her belly pointing and assumption that a woman in my “condition” was incapable of taking her dog for a walk.

It was nearly October in Florida but that didn’t mean fall was in the air. It was still a sweltering 95 degrees. There wasn’t a cloud in the sky or any wind in the air. After walking for about a mile, the heat really started to get the best of me. My shirt was sticking to my back and belly. Sweat was dripping off my face and running down my things. And, despite the SPF 70 I put on prior to leaving the house, I could feel the sun burning the back of my neck. It didn’t help that I was a bit dizzy, too.

Being 9 months pregnant in the Florida heat can be a stinky, sweaty mess (not to mention super uncomfortable).

I decided to throw in the towel and head for home. Before I was even a quarter of the way back, I found myself wishing that the women I had turned down for a ride three times would show up again and offer it a fourth time. I was starting to feel nauseated and faint, on top of the already disconcerting dizziness. I was sweating so profusely that not only my shirt, but also my pants were soaked. There wasn’t a dry spot on them. I started to think that the lady in the car was right – I shouldn’t be walking in this heat – at least not while I was this pregnant. I was due in a week.

I forced myself to push through the rest of the walk and eventually made it home. As soon as I got inside, I changed out of my sweaty clothes and lay down on my bed mostly naked in an attempt to cool down. After a few minutes I had cooled down considerably and was ready to get dressed the rest of the way. As soon as I stood up, something caught my attention. My underwear – the new, clean ones I had just put on a few minutes earlier – were wet again.

I wondered if this was it, the day I was going to meet my daughter. I knew at 39 weeks there was a good chance this was just false labor, but I couldn’t help but get excited. My heart began to race and a smile spread wide across my face. It was time to call my husband (oh yeah, and the doctor too).