I was fully dilated. My midwives could see my baby. But after 24 hours of labor, Charlie and I were speeding to the hospital at 3:00 am.
“Why is this happening?” I asked. “Did God hear anything I prayed?”
In all my years of exercising, I’d never exerted myself so intensely, only to fail.
Despite my rough pregnancy, I had declared a smooth birth and wholeheartedly believed I’d have one. I was supposed to deliver my baby under the care of a certified midwife, who’d welcomed over 4,000 babies into this world. Home is where I felt safest and most at peace, and my husband’s and my beliefs would be honored. I could labor drug-free with low intervention, where I wanted, how I wanted, and free from machines, tubes, poking, and prodding.
Since 2020, I’d learned so much about the medical establishment that the thought of going to a hospital made me heat up. My local hospital is known for its unfriendliness to home birthers who transfer. I could only picture myself arguing with doctors and nurses who wouldn’t respect my beliefs and would pressure me to make decisions with which I didn’t agree.
“Not going unless I’m dying,” I wrote on my prenatal paperwork.
I was too far along to travel to a friendlier facility in our state capital, so my midwife recommended our county hospital.
I’m stubborn but not so stubborn that I’d jeopardize my or my baby’s lives.
I wasn’t dying. I just needed some extra help.
Despite my opposition to drugs, my midwife believed if I received an epidural, I’d be able to rest long enough to regain my strength and produce my baby.
I’d entered labor exhausted (read my pregnancy story here), quickly lost what small appetite I had, and didn’t have enough fuel for one of the most important events of my life. Early labor started on a Sunday. I actively labored for 24 hours, pushed for three, and didn’t give birth to my baby until Friday.
At home, when hours of labor turned into days, my prayers became more desperate. Alone in the bathroom, I prayed, “I surrender this birth to You, Lord. Just get my baby here safely.”
My midwives, two of whom were pregnant themselves, were so tired they rested their heads on the bed between every contraction. They had tried every birthing method they knew.
Now, they were whispering.
They removed their hands from me. Silence thickened the air. Someone sucked every ounce of energy out of the room.
I don’t know what they were doing. Maybe they were thinking, praying, or seeing how I’d react. I wasn’t scared. I just felt very alone and at a loss for what I was supposed to do. I wanted to scream, Why aren’t you helping me? But the words, like my baby, just wouldn’t come out.
Being stuck sucks.
Maybe they would’ve tried something else if I’d asked, but, in my heart, I knew that they were done with me. They could no longer tell me what to do because I didn’t even know how I was feeling. At the end of myself, I knew only God could lead.
That’s when I remembered my bathroom prayer and, like a bursting dam, asked, “Should I go to the hospital?” in a way that was not my own but the Holy Spirit interceding.
We talked it over. My midwife and doulas gathered our belongings. We calmly hustled out the door and, little did I know, toward the worst pain of my life.