Lucia’s Birth Story
Lucia Orlando Littell made her grand entrance at 6:38pm on Thursday, October 15, at Kaiser Roseville, two days before her due date. She was 6 pounds exactly and 19 inches long. Andrew and I had “planned” on a natural birth; and I use the quotation marks deliberately now, having learned a dramatic lesson about the impossibility of planning how a birth can go. I’m still shaken up about Lucia’s birth story, and am trying to focus on the fact that she is beautiful and healthy and here.
I started getting period-like cramping around 4:00am the morning of Wednesday, October 14. I tried to sleep but was too excited; something told me this was it. The cramping continued through the morning but was mild enough that Andrew and I decided he should go to work. Late morning, the cramping turned decidedly to contractions, which I timed throughout the afternoon. By the time Andrew got home around 5:30pm, we knew we’d be having a baby soon. We got our things together and made a soup for dinner. Around 9pm, the contractions started intensifying; I sat on the birth ball, straddled a chair while Andrew rubbed my back, did squats and lunges, and soon the contractions were about 5 minutes apart. Then 3. Then 2. We decided we’d better head to the hospital.
In triage, I was hooked up to a stationary fetal monitor. Occasionally, we’d notice that the baby’s heart rate slowed down during a contraction. When the midwife checked me, I was only at 3cm, but we were admitted because of the heart rate. It was about 12:30am Thursday morning. At this point, our “plan” for a natural birth started going haywire. I had to be hooked up constantly to a stationary fetal monitor and blood pressure cuff; had a pulse-taking device constantly on my index finger; and had an IV catheter inserted in my hand. I did my best to stay out of bed, getting through the contractions on the birth ball. The baby’s heart rate continued to occasionally decelerate. A nurse hooked me up to an IV for hydration, and I was given an oxygen mask. From here on, the timeline is blurry, but I’ll do my best to be accurate.
I labored this way from around 1am until around 6am. When the midwife checked me, I’d progressed only to 4cm, and she told me my contractions weren’t nearly hard or long enough. I agreed to have my water broken. The contractions intensified after this, and the only way I could get through them was standing up doing forward fold over the birth ball while Andrew rubbed the bones in my lower back. Midwife Holly checked me a few hours later, and I’d progressed to 6cm. We were encouraged. The contractions got stronger, and eventually I relied on low moaning to get through them. For several hours I hung onto the birth ball for dear life. My legs were so exhausted they began shaking uncontrollably.
When Holly checked me again hours later, I was devastated to learn I hadn’t progressed at all, and for the first time she suggested that we needed to get things moving; the dreaded word “pitocin” entered the room. I agreed to a dose of fentenyl before they started the pitocin, but it did absolutely nothing to take the edge off the pain, even when they increased the dosage. By then, after about 16 or so hours of laboring without drugs, I was losing my ability to deal with the contractions. It was worse now that I was in bed with the fentenyl drip. I knew deep down that pitocin-augmented contractions were going to be beyond my ability to cope, and I asked for an epidural. For months I’d been certain this was exactly what I didn’t want—but I was so grateful for the relief.
Not long after getting the epidural, I was fully dilated and effaced (they didn’t even have to give me more than 20 seconds’ worth of pitocin—my body was finally relaxed enough to progress on its own). However, the baby’s heart rate continued to decelerate more dramatically, and Holly hooked up a fetal scalp monitor to get more accurate readings. Things were not looking good, but Holly instructed me to start pushing. The baby’s heart rate began decelerating even more during the pushes. Soon, Holly gently told me that the birth had moved to a delivery for which an ob gyn would be required.
Things started happening quickly after that. The room filled with people. I was introduced to Dr. Uyeno, who told me that we needed to get the baby out quickly; he said she was already very far down in my pelvis, so we’d use a vacuum, and, if that didn’t work, I’d have to have a C-section. People surrounded the bed. Someone pulled down on a ceiling tile and revealed an operating-room lighting system. Andrew heard the doctor ask Holly grimly how good she was at acting quickly on her feet. A team of three people stood ready to grab and examine (save?) the baby. I was terrified and upset but tried my best to calm down; I was shaking uncontrollably. At the next contraction everyone screamed at me to push, push, push, and I could hear Dr. Uyeno directing the nurses to turn up the suction. Nothing. Another contraction, more pushes and suction—nothing. Again, and nothing. My own heart rate dropped; the baby’s kept dropping lower and lower. A nurse watching the monitors called out both of our heart rates every few seconds. Finally—I pushed her out, without suction, and, I think, seconds away from a C-section.
The baby was whisked away for an exam, but I could hear her making little grunting sounds from across the room. Eventually she was brought over to me and I got to hold her for the first time. Her Apgar scores were good—7 and 9. I don’t think I’d registered at that point how scary our situation had really been; I was just so grateful she was okay. I didn’t even realize at first that Dr. Uyeno was stitching up a large episiotomy.
The next few days are a blur. On Friday, a pediatrician grew concerned at a soft spot on Lucia’s head; a skull fracture was suspected and x-rays were ordered, but they came back fine. On Saturday, another pediatrician found nothing wrong with her head; apparently whatever had been there had healed. But she put off our discharge until Sunday just in case. On Sunday, she admitted they “may have overreacted” and sent us on our way. (Meanwhile, Andrew and I had spent forty-eight hours in a hell of worry and distress.) Finally, finally, we got home on Sunday afternoon.
So. Not the birth story I’d planned, and so far beyond anything I could have imagined. It was easily the most terrifying, wrenching experience of my life, and it took me emotionally to places I didn’t even know existed. It’s still hard to think about the birth without being overwhelmed by the fear all over again, and it will probably take me some time to digest it all and move past it. She still has bruises and cuts on her head from the vacuum and monitor--it just breaks my heart.
In the meantime, though, we are completely in love with Lucia, and I am just overcome by the idea that this tiny being is the little one who was in my belly all these months. She is a perfect, perfect baby, and we love every second with her. She is, of course, the cutest, most fabulous baby on earth.
Lucia, minutes after her birth
I started getting period-like cramping around 4:00am the morning of Wednesday, October 14. I tried to sleep but was too excited; something told me this was it. The cramping continued through the morning but was mild enough that Andrew and I decided he should go to work. Late morning, the cramping turned decidedly to contractions, which I timed throughout the afternoon. By the time Andrew got home around 5:30pm, we knew we’d be having a baby soon. We got our things together and made a soup for dinner. Around 9pm, the contractions started intensifying; I sat on the birth ball, straddled a chair while Andrew rubbed my back, did squats and lunges, and soon the contractions were about 5 minutes apart. Then 3. Then 2. We decided we’d better head to the hospital.
In triage, I was hooked up to a stationary fetal monitor. Occasionally, we’d notice that the baby’s heart rate slowed down during a contraction. When the midwife checked me, I was only at 3cm, but we were admitted because of the heart rate. It was about 12:30am Thursday morning. At this point, our “plan” for a natural birth started going haywire. I had to be hooked up constantly to a stationary fetal monitor and blood pressure cuff; had a pulse-taking device constantly on my index finger; and had an IV catheter inserted in my hand. I did my best to stay out of bed, getting through the contractions on the birth ball. The baby’s heart rate continued to occasionally decelerate. A nurse hooked me up to an IV for hydration, and I was given an oxygen mask. From here on, the timeline is blurry, but I’ll do my best to be accurate.
I labored this way from around 1am until around 6am. When the midwife checked me, I’d progressed only to 4cm, and she told me my contractions weren’t nearly hard or long enough. I agreed to have my water broken. The contractions intensified after this, and the only way I could get through them was standing up doing forward fold over the birth ball while Andrew rubbed the bones in my lower back. Midwife Holly checked me a few hours later, and I’d progressed to 6cm. We were encouraged. The contractions got stronger, and eventually I relied on low moaning to get through them. For several hours I hung onto the birth ball for dear life. My legs were so exhausted they began shaking uncontrollably.
When Holly checked me again hours later, I was devastated to learn I hadn’t progressed at all, and for the first time she suggested that we needed to get things moving; the dreaded word “pitocin” entered the room. I agreed to a dose of fentenyl before they started the pitocin, but it did absolutely nothing to take the edge off the pain, even when they increased the dosage. By then, after about 16 or so hours of laboring without drugs, I was losing my ability to deal with the contractions. It was worse now that I was in bed with the fentenyl drip. I knew deep down that pitocin-augmented contractions were going to be beyond my ability to cope, and I asked for an epidural. For months I’d been certain this was exactly what I didn’t want—but I was so grateful for the relief.
Not long after getting the epidural, I was fully dilated and effaced (they didn’t even have to give me more than 20 seconds’ worth of pitocin—my body was finally relaxed enough to progress on its own). However, the baby’s heart rate continued to decelerate more dramatically, and Holly hooked up a fetal scalp monitor to get more accurate readings. Things were not looking good, but Holly instructed me to start pushing. The baby’s heart rate began decelerating even more during the pushes. Soon, Holly gently told me that the birth had moved to a delivery for which an ob gyn would be required.
Things started happening quickly after that. The room filled with people. I was introduced to Dr. Uyeno, who told me that we needed to get the baby out quickly; he said she was already very far down in my pelvis, so we’d use a vacuum, and, if that didn’t work, I’d have to have a C-section. People surrounded the bed. Someone pulled down on a ceiling tile and revealed an operating-room lighting system. Andrew heard the doctor ask Holly grimly how good she was at acting quickly on her feet. A team of three people stood ready to grab and examine (save?) the baby. I was terrified and upset but tried my best to calm down; I was shaking uncontrollably. At the next contraction everyone screamed at me to push, push, push, and I could hear Dr. Uyeno directing the nurses to turn up the suction. Nothing. Another contraction, more pushes and suction—nothing. Again, and nothing. My own heart rate dropped; the baby’s kept dropping lower and lower. A nurse watching the monitors called out both of our heart rates every few seconds. Finally—I pushed her out, without suction, and, I think, seconds away from a C-section.
The baby was whisked away for an exam, but I could hear her making little grunting sounds from across the room. Eventually she was brought over to me and I got to hold her for the first time. Her Apgar scores were good—7 and 9. I don’t think I’d registered at that point how scary our situation had really been; I was just so grateful she was okay. I didn’t even realize at first that Dr. Uyeno was stitching up a large episiotomy.
The next few days are a blur. On Friday, a pediatrician grew concerned at a soft spot on Lucia’s head; a skull fracture was suspected and x-rays were ordered, but they came back fine. On Saturday, another pediatrician found nothing wrong with her head; apparently whatever had been there had healed. But she put off our discharge until Sunday just in case. On Sunday, she admitted they “may have overreacted” and sent us on our way. (Meanwhile, Andrew and I had spent forty-eight hours in a hell of worry and distress.) Finally, finally, we got home on Sunday afternoon.
So. Not the birth story I’d planned, and so far beyond anything I could have imagined. It was easily the most terrifying, wrenching experience of my life, and it took me emotionally to places I didn’t even know existed. It’s still hard to think about the birth without being overwhelmed by the fear all over again, and it will probably take me some time to digest it all and move past it. She still has bruises and cuts on her head from the vacuum and monitor--it just breaks my heart.
In the meantime, though, we are completely in love with Lucia, and I am just overcome by the idea that this tiny being is the little one who was in my belly all these months. She is a perfect, perfect baby, and we love every second with her. She is, of course, the cutest, most fabulous baby on earth.
Lucia, minutes after her birth
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