This is the second post in a series on how God has changed me through the ups and downs of pregnancy, childbirth, and miscarriage. (Read the first post here.)
Before heading to the hospital, I took some time to put on my make-up and fix my hair. I’d remembered seeing pictures of my beautiful mother after her first childbirth, and didn’t want to look as awful as she had (sorry Mom!) for my hospital pictures . . .
We followed the 5-1-1 rule we’d been taught in our childbirth class (contractions coming five minutes apart, lasting a minute each, for one hour) as our sign it was time to leave for the hospital, and arrived around 10AM on a Monday morning.
“I think I’m in labor,” I told the lady behind the desk at the maternity ward. We were led to a triage unit where I was assigned a labor nurse who told me I was four centimeters dilated. That was encouraging, but my nurse wasn’t convinced.
“Why don’t you either go home until labor picks up a bit more, or walk the halls for awhile?” she suggested. I opted to walk. After two hours, contractions had picked up. I was doubling over, groaning and grabbing those convenient hand-rails lining the halls. My labor nurse seemed quite pleased, and told my husband “We’ll be admitting her.”
She led me to my labor/delivery room and offered to run some bath water so I could labor in the tub awhile. The tub wasn’t as great as I had imagined . . . neither was the rocking chair or the birthing ball. The nurse came around 2 o’clock and told me my four hours at the hospital of walking/tub/birthing ball/rocking chair had produced another entire centimeter, “Maybe even a centimeter and a half,” she said (I’m pretty sure the “half” was meant as a morale-booster).
I spent the next four hours walking/rocking/resting, and squeezing David’s hand really tightly. By 6 o’clock my progress had seemed to stop around 6 centimeters, so the OB doctor-on-call came to see me.
Read the next post here.
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