SamStory: Episode One

It seems to be fashionable nowadays for new parents to write a birth story, just as it’s become de rigueur for parents-to-be to compose a birth plan. A birth plan is supposed to help keep everyone—mom, dad, nurses, doctors, midwives—on the same page as far as what the pregnant lady does and does not want done to her and the baby. “No circumcision.” “Dad will cut the cord once it stops pulsating.” “I want the epidural as soon as I walk in the door.” Etc. Except that in our case, the birth plan became a sort of prophetic document of doom. We did not want our baby’s birth induced (it was). I did not want my water broken (it was). I did not want an episiotomy (yep, that too). Best laid plans and all that. I’ve decided that if I am ever pregnant again, my birth plan will be one bullet point long: give birth to a baby.

Because the baby coming out okay is all that really matters. So why the birth story? It’s like the sequel to the birth plan but much more interesting and involved. I must confess that when I was in my 9th month of pregnancy I was obsessed with reading birth stories on the internet. My way of trying to get an idea of what I was in for. I also quizzed my mother and any other mother I knew. “What do contractions feel like? Will I know how to push?” “Will I be able to tell when I’m in real labor?” EVERYBODY says, “Oh, you’ll know.” An enigmatic response that annoyed my inner boy scout to no end.

Except that they were right. I did know, more or less. And now I understand what “Oh you’ll know” really means. Translation: “I can’t really remember and why in heaven’s name would I want to?” So, before my own memories of Samantha’s birth float away down the rivers of my sleep debt, here is her birth story.

Episode 1: Better Out than In

Our story begins on Friday, September 30, 2005 otherwise known as “Serenity Day!” in our household. All summer long I had been eagerly awaiting the release of Joss Whedon’s film based on the most excellent but tragically canceled “Firefly” series. The baby and I had a deal: she could be born anytime after I had seen the movie. I was 39 weeks pregnant, had been feeling Braxton-Hicks contractions and cramps off and on for the past week, but so far, nothing to indicate real labor. All in all I was feeling pretty good. Rotund and tired, yes, but in high spirits. I had recently finished my article on “Sleeping Beauty,” work was progressing on the book, and the weather in Altoona had turned the corner into a warm crisp fall. It was a fine day to welcome the Browncoats to the big screen.

AC and I had planned to attend the 4pm matinee, largely because we’re cheapskates. But before that, we were to have our weekly fetal surveillance date. Yes, Samantha, we were watching you in the womb! As best we could anyway. I had been diagnosed “small for dates” the month before, and so to be on the safe side, our midwives had ordered weekly biophysical profiles and non-stress tests. The latter is fairly common in the third trimester. I would be strapped to a fetal monitor which measures and records the baby’s heartbeat. Every time I felt movement, I would press a button that recorded a small arrow on the printout. The idea is that when the baby moves, its heart rate increases. A healthy baby will have energy enough to move. A baby under stress will conserve energy.

As for the BPP, it is a specialized ultrasound, one which evaluates four factors: 1) fetal size; 2) fetal movement; 3) fetal breathing, and 4) quantity of amniotic fluid. At two points per category, the highest score one can get on the BPP is 8/8. Usually, we came away with 8/8, once or twice a 6/8 because the technician did not observe breathing. Lack of breathing was never all that worrisome because the fetus does not need to breathe in the womb. (No air there, of course. Oxygen is conveyed through the umbilical cord.) But towards the end of the third trimester, the fetus will practice breathing with lungs. I remember watching the grainy orange outline of lips moving in and out, like fish kisses. After a month of ultrasounds, we sure did know that baby’s innards! The technicians would quiz us on the images: the long rod of the femur, the corn on the cob spine, the inky black bladder, the honeycombed umbilical cord, and of course the pulsing 4-chambered heart. Towards the end of the pregnancy, though, it became difficult for the techs to get a good read of Sam’s head. “That baby is WAY down there” they would exclaim while pressing the wand over my pelvis, as though kneading a knotted muscle. “Uh, huh” would be my reply as I tried to keep my own inky bladder from emptying its contents onto the exam table. Sam’s early descent messed up their estimates of size, so when she consistently measured 2 or 3 weeks smaller than her dates, we were not all that concerned. Test error, we believed. This baby is fine.

So on September 30, we arrived at Bon Secour Holy Family Hospital for the usual routine. There’s her femur. There’s her liver. Yep, that’s her spine. Now, why isn’t the baby moving? Earlier that morning, Sam had been thumping away, her heel jabbing into my right side. She was probably sleeping now. This had happened before and the technician would poke my belly, turn me on my side, and generally try to jostle the babe into motion. One technician had spiky long finger nails and after enduring several minutes of her poking my side with those needle nails, I wanted to elbow her into the next room. Eventually, the baby would wake up and start jiggling, and the test would be over. But today, Sam would not cooperate. Like her mother in the early morning, she ignored the prodding and pulled the covers of the womb up over her head. “Just five more minutes, ok?”

The problem was, after the better part of an hour, the technician did not observe any fetal breathing either. We left Bon Secours with a 4/8 score, the lowest we’d ever received. Dejected with our grade, I told myself that the baby was fine and this was just an off day. We trudged up the hill to the midwives’ office for the non-stress test, which we passed with flying colors. Punching! Kicking! Disco moves! Whoohoo! Relief.

But then Lori, our midwife, came back from a phone consultation with the M.D. in charge of the practice.

“Since you’re 39 weeks and full term, he thinks the baby is better out than in.”

!!?

“It’s time to have a baby.”