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Ellen Verne's Birth

When I was almost eight months pregnant, on March 11, 1994, my father died very suddenly of a heart attack. I am an only child, and he was more than eager for the arrival of his first grandchild (which he just *knew* was going to be another girl for him to worship). To say I was devastated doesn't describe it adequately, but I held on to the knowledge that my father would want me to put all my energy into making this tiny baby's life as good as possible. And, all I knew was that this baby was coming, grandfather or no grandfather, and I had better not take the fork in the road which led to the psychiatric ward.

We settled into our apartment, close to where my husband was attending university. The due date was April 25, and the doctor figured that the baby would be "on time". I'd had a very easy pregnancy up until then, and everyone was silently thinking that if there was any justice in the world, I'd have an easy delivery, too. I started to prepare the nest, hoping that it would be over soon. April 25th came and went, without any noticeable effacement. My doctor saw me, with my belly off the fundal height charts, and said "well, it looks like we're going to have to wait". I went home and fell into bed.

For the next two weeks, every Braxton-Hicks contraction produced a wave of euphoria as I dreamed that I might actually get this child out of my body someday. My doctor asked me when I'd like to schedule my induction in the next week, and I chose May 5, my aunt's birthday. I gave up trying to "eat light meals" and ate whatever I felt like. So on May 3, I ate a big lunch of fried clams from a take-out down the street and went shopping. The walking produced a few mild contractions and I suddenly felt tired and thought I'd go home to rest. At 5 p.m. I woke up with the strongest contraction yet, then another within a few minutes. My heart started racing and I contemplated my next move. Was this it??

I couldn't decide...one time the contractions would be hard but slow, then fast and mild. I decided to call the expectant father, who raced home. I baked "birthday" muffins for the baby, just in case. We waited, counting and timing every movement, not sure what was going on. I phoned the hospital at around 9 p.m. and they told me I could wait at home until I started feeling uncomfortable; if it was false labour then I should talk to my doctor in the morning. With this to go on, I ran myself a bath and soaked for awhile, then got ready for bed. I phoned my friend in Toronto who was an obstetrics nurse, and when I hung up, I felt the omnipresent urge to urinate. I stood up, and WHOOSH!--the clear waters broke, like Niagara Falls! Well, now I had my answer as to whether I was really in labour--and I was terrified. My knees turned to jelly, and my husband got me a kitchen chair to sit on, still dripping. The contractions got much stronger then, and although my husband was timing them, I can't remember at what point we left for the hospital; I think it was around midnight. The 20 minute drive to the hospital was over a bumpy country road and I thought we would never get there.

The nurse who escorted us to the maternity ward took me to a wonderful birthing room. It looked like a regular bedroom, with pretty wallpaper and paint, a rocking chair, and a private bathroom with shower, only with a hospital bed which had a removable lower part. I put on an old comfy t-shirt that I had brought, and the nurse checked me out. She told me that I was at 5 cm, and that things seemed to be moving right along. I was uncomfortable, but not too bad...my biggest complaint was fatigue. I had been up since 8 a.m. the previous morning, and now it was almost 2 a.m. with the hardest work left to do. I decided to go for a shower, which helped immensely. I must have stayed in there for nearly an hour, the sensations of the contractions blending with the sensation of the water beating down on me. I then realized that I could barely stand up! The nurse got me back in bed and checked me--only 6 cm after all that. I thought for sure it would be at least 8. I was really feeling the pain by this point, and the fatigue was unrelenting. This went on until around 7 a.m. My doctor came in and checked me--6.5 cm. I wanted to cry. The obstetrician came in and asked me if I wanted medication. I said no. Another two hours passed, and only another cm gained. My doctor came in, and I told her that I would like the Demerol now. It seemed to help for awhile, and I probably dozed a bit between contractions, but eventually the pain of the contractions were "breaking through" too much for me to relax much, and I was beyond exhausted.

My husband was pacing around, trying to comfort me...then the obstetrician returned and checked me. I was still 6.5 cm. He suggested that I have an epidural and a pitocin drip. I agreed. The lack of sensation was strange at first, but it sure beat what I had just been through. I couldn't really sleep, but at least I wasn't enduring excruciating pain on top of it all. The pitocin really speeded things up; I was up to almost 9 cm by 2 pm. I thought, "This is it!" Well, it wasn't. I stayed at 9 cm until 4:30 pm, and then the doctor detected meconium. I made a deal with her that if I wasn't at 10 cm in 15 minutes, I'd go for the c-section she recommended. For some reason it was important to me to have that 15 silly minutes! Of course it didn't progress any more, and when the obstetrician and doctor came to take me to the operating room, I was actually relieved because it was going to be over so soon. I also caught the look of fear on my husband's face when the doctor explained the maternal death rate for emergency caesarean section. It was the only time that I was actually *scared*, just for a fleeting moment. But, there was no time to worry about it...and I just wanted to see my baby. It happened so fast--the preparation took maybe ten minutes at the most. The lack of sensation when they lifted me onto the operating table was so shocking--I couldn't feel anything from the waist down.

My husband was there beside me, and the anesthesiologist, and my doctor, two obstetricians and a pediatrician at my feet. There wasn't much space left in that little operating room! I started feeling euphoric, because I knew that it was about to happen, finally. The doctor gave us a play-by-play, and while it was uncomfortable to have two or three people (apparently) jumping up and down on my abdomen, it didn't last for very long. At 5:27 on May 4, I heard the most beautiful words--"You have a perfect daughter!" I peered around the curtain to see the pediatrician holding my squalling 9lb10oz daughter, red as a beet. My first reaction, through tears, was, "It's Dad's girl!" I felt like my father was right there, embodied in our hopes, fears and wishes for that tiny person. So we named her Ellen, for herself, and Verne, for her grandfather.

Harmony