Limp, blue, and with lungs full of gunk, Lucca Nello Tursi made a memorable entrance into this world. As icing on the cake, he left a perfect poop-emoji dump on the floor of the operating room. Everyone had a good laugh about it once he started crying. Here is his birth story:
Wednesday, January 6: Overdue Day Eight
I’ve already had two membrane sweeps to encourage baby out – one at 40 weeks and one a few days later – but neither one has the intended impact. I have an acupuncture appointment for this afternoon. It’s the last thing we have yet to try on a long list of “home remedies” to get labor moving. (I also draw the line at drinking castor oil, but I promise we try everything else). Having never been to acupuncture before before, I’m not sure what to expect. But I’m optimistic; anything to get this baby out.
The receptionist at Glow Natural Healing Center greets me warmly, and leads me into a small room with a massage table and heat lamps. Get comfortable, she says.
I ungracefully climb onto the table and lay on my side. It’s only marginally relaxing given my massive, baby-filled belly. But the acupuncturist seems pleased. She talks to me about my current state, asks if I have any concerns, and reminds me again to relax while she steps out of the room.
About ten minutes later she comes back and applies a handful of small pricks to my lower back, one to each of my feet, and one to my left hand. The sensation is pleasant and not at all painful. Then she leaves. I sleep, warm and cozy in my own little womb. I awake 45 minutes later when she removes the needles.
Groggy, and feeling a bit like I just paid someone to let me take a nap, I step out into the cold and waddle back to my car. No wonder baby doesn’t want to come out. Being warm and cozy is way better than this.
Thursday, January 7: Overdue Day Nine
I wake up Thursday morning with more fluid than normal leaking out. Unlike in the movies, most pregnant people labor for a while before their water breaks, and only in a small percentage of cases does the water come out in one big gush. For others, like me, the baby’s head serves as a sort of plug, releasing limited streams at a time.
Whenever I move or shift positions, the fluid escapes in small amounts. It’s surprisingly difficult to tell if this is a broken water situation or if it’s just the expected increase in discharge at the end of pregnancy.
I haven’t had Braxton Hicks during my pregnancy, and seeing as I am not really sure if my water has broken, we hang out at home all day. By mid-afternoon I am fairly sure it has and I tell Jordan. We confirm a few hours later when he notices a wet spot on the couch after.
At 7:30pm I feel a deep pain emanating below my pubic bone. I’ve had pain before, but none like this. My first contraction feels like a hot, sharp blade trying to penetrate my insides. It lasts for about 30 seconds, and it’s all I can do to breath through it.
But then it passes, and nothing more happens for a while.
At 9pm, we go for a walk to get some fresh air. I have to stop twice on the walk to breathe through the pain. This might really happen after all!
Back from the walk, 12-hours after my water breaks, we decide to go to bed and labor at home for a bit. Our Midwifery Group advised us to stay home as long as we can, as it will be more comfortable for me and, if I go to the hospital too early, they’ll just send me back. So we stay.
Friday, January 8: Overdue Day Ten
I lay down, and am surprised that I can sleep. Every 7-12 minutes a contraction, lasting about 70 seconds, wakes me up and I track it using the Full Term Contraction Timer app on my phone. When the knife begins twisting it wakes me up, I hit start on my tracker. I breathe deeply to get through each cycle, unsure if it’s worse or better than the previous one in my groggy state. The knife seems to go deeper as each hour ticks on, and feels like it’s no longer poking, but actively twisting, trying to force my body to split in two.
Breath in. Blow out. Breath In. Blow out.
Jordan is sleeping. I’d be mad but I’m so glad. I know I’ll need him to be my cheerleader soon. My contractions remain 7-12 minutes apart.
At 2am I get up to go to the bathroom. Changing positions makes the contractions more intense. In particular sitting on a toilet seems to anger the blade. I try to stand, but can’t. I’m stuck in limbo. Deep breaths get me through until I can sit, then eventually make my way back to bed.
We should probably head to the hospital soon, I think. But my contractions, while getting more intense, aren’t getting any longer or closer together. I can’t remember if the midwives said to call when the water broke or only when contractions were four minutes apart?
I go back to bed, and repeat the 2am bathroom visit every hour until 5am. Jordan barely stirs.
Hospital Bound
I get up for my hourly bathroom visit at 5am, endure that misery, and decide it’s time to call the midwife. I feel like it’s been long enough, and I don’t want to be having contractions while stuck in traffic. It makes the most sense to start moving now. Midway through the phone call it becomes clear that something has changed; leaving is no longer a choice, but necessity. My contractions are closer together. Much closer. Now only a few minutes between and lasting nearly 90 seconds. It’s time to go.
Jordan is flying around the house, throwing food into a cooler and loading bags in the car. Between contractions and his flurry of encouragement I manage to waddle out. Sitting in the car is just as bad as I imagine.
We live 15-20 minutes from the hospital, but I swear we make it in half the time. I have two contractions en route, or maybe it’s three? I roll the window down and try not to puke. Jordan takes me straight to Emergency; there is no walking from the parking lot for me. I’m quickly wheeled to a labor and delivery triage room. The knife never stops twisting.
In the middle of my third contraction in triage, I climb onto the table on all fours – the only comfortable way for me to labor. If I weren’t so violently ill I would laugh at the thought that pops into my mind: I thought I wouldn’t know when I was having a contraction.
Just like being in love – when you know, you know.
Labor Pains
The only way I can think to describe labor is to ask you to picture an apple. Pickit up and hold it in your hands in front of you like you’re cupping a flower. Put your thumbs into the bottom of the apple, then try to pull it apart using the force of your thumbs. That’s what labor feels like. As though someone is forcing your body in half length wise; ripping you in two with a red-hot prodding iron.
The pain is immense. I tear most of my clothes off and am still sweating. At some point Jordan arrives and is reminding me to breathe through the pain like we practiced in birthing class. Someone does an exam. Eight centimeters dilated, she says. Another person does a second exam. I’m nine centimeters dilated by their estimation. We are wheeled into a labor room. As soon as we arrive I throw up from the pain.
Labor Room
In France there’s not an equivalent for the term “natural birth”. You either “give birth” or you “give birth without an epidural”. I like the second framing better. Why is it a badge of honor to go without an epidural? I labored at home for 10 hours already, then endured a car ride to the hospital and two triage exams. We have medicine to ease my pain. Why not take it?
In the birthing room multiple people attempt to put in an IV line. I give blood regularly and never have trouble with my veins, but something about pregnancy is causing them to roll. Three people try to put in the IV without success. They poke the outside of my right wrist. Then the top of the hand. When that doesn’t work we move to the outside of my left hand, then the top. We’re finally successful back on the right side, but after 30 minutes my arm is puffing up like crazy. Left elbow it is. Not an ideal place.
The anesthesiologist comes in quickly after I ask for an epidural, and I have no idea that I’m about to endure the very worst part of labor. You aren’t allowed to move when they put a giant needle in your spine. One inch and you risk paralysis.
Jordan stands in front of me. I lean into him and look in his eyes. He reminds me to focus. Breathe. I grit my teeth and force deep breaths and glare at Jordan and everyone else in sight for not making this easier. I have two contractions before the needle is safely in my spine.
Epidural haze
The relief is immediate. Once I’m anesthetized, the midwife does another check. Her assessment, to the surprise of everyone, is that I am only 5 cm dilated.
Wait, what?
Fifteen minutes ago I’m 8-9 cm dilated and feeling ready to push, and now I’m only 5? This is the same woman who told me I was 8 cm dilated! How could we have gotten that so wrong just a few minutes ago?
Thank god I got the epidural.
Apparently it can be hard to do an accurate cervix assessment mid-contraction. It’s also easy to repeat a number or say a similar number after hearing someone else’s assessment, as may have been the case for me. My cervix is also swollen on one side, making it harder to assess. Neat.
The Next Fifteen Hours
The next fifteen hours are a semi-conscious haze. We are in the labor room from 6am-9pm, and yet neither one of us can account for how we spend the time. The nurses we have when we arrive leave and a new team comes in. Then the nurses from 6am comes back. Somewhere down the hall a woman screams in agony. Her baby is almost here.
We must see a dozen different faces in our room talking to us about progress and plans. Every now and then someone rolls me from one side to the other. Even though I am mostly numbs, my legs feel heavy and full of blood. I don’t want to lay here anymore.
A nurse is with us a little more than half the time, and the midwife checks in every hour or so. At some point I am 7.5 cm dilated, but am not progressing. Despite my strong desire not to, we choose to use Pitocin to encourage labor. I has to be administered at increasing intervals every 30-60 minutes, beginning at a Level 1. There are 36 levels. I do the math, that’s another 18-36 hours. I know I won’t make it that long.
The medicine is brought in.
The point of the Pitocin, as I understand, is to increase both the frequency and intensity of my contractions. My uterus is contracting, but at 41.5 weeks of gestation it’s also tired and old. Not to mention out of lubricant, as the bag of water emptied more than 24-hours ago. The contractions I am having are about a third as powerful as we need them to be, and they aren’t increasing in frequency. Pitocin should fix that.
We start at Level 1.
To add complication, every time I do have a contraction our little baby “de-cells”, or has a deceleration in its heart rate. This could indicate baby is in distress, and most likely restricting the cord during contractions. This can be a very dangerous situation, and we watch it carefully for the next hour.
The Pitocin is increased to Level 2.
I’m amazed that I can watch my body have a contraction on a monitor and yet feel nothing. What was so unbearable before is now something I experience as a bystander, just like everyone else.
Another hour goes by. The Pitocin is finally increased to Level 3. We’re not increasing level as fast as I thought we would. Nearly four hours have gone by.
Our families want updates. We want to give them but this is all so overwhelming we barely know what’s going on, let alone have the emotional capacity to communicate it.
The baby has a harder time when I’m on my left side, so I’ve been laying only on my right side or my back for the last six hours. I can still feel pressure in my legs and without laying on my left side I don’t have any ‘balance’ with blood flow to allow the blood to drain from one side to the other evenly. My right leg is aching with the extra fluid. I didn’t expect the throbbing.
Two more hours go by. We call in the midwife team after not seeing them for so long. I get another cervical check. No progress. Frustrated with the lack of regular increases in Pitocin, Jordan and I are stern that we need to see this move along.
We skip Level 4 and go to Level 5. A nurse is now constantly monitoring.
The good news is the Pitocin is working. My contractions are a lot stronger. The bad news is that the baby is still de-celling any time I have a contraction. We briefly discuss the option of doing an amnio transfusion, where fluid is reintroduced to the uterus to reduce pressure on the cord and relieve baby’s distress. For some reason we’re talked out of this option by another physician.
Another 30 minutes. Level 6.
Somewhere down the hall a new woman screams. She arrived after me and her baby is coming now.
Level 7.
My water broke 36 hours ago. I’ve been laboring for 24. Our little baby is sunny side up, we’re told for the first time, and it’s unlikely it’ll come out vaginally. Why we were not told this sooner I’ll never know, and it’ll probably take me a long time to come to terms with what I feel was an unnecessarily prolonged labor. At 7:30pm, seeing no more meaningful progress and being out of options, my care team recommends a c-section.
I cry.
You have so much invested in this idea of a baby arriving a certain way. Cut out of me in a sterile, cold operating room is not my idea of a good birth. Had I known we’d end up here, I would have booked a c-section weeks ago and saved myself all the uncomfortable waiting.
Operating Room
With the shift change at 8pm, we won’t be able to get the c-section right away, but need to wait until after the new crew arrives. They can take me now, but prefer to leave rooms open for emergencies. This news is upsetting. I’m not happy to learn that I have to lay here longer with my right leg swelling and my grief washing over me. I console myself by saying I’d rather have the fresh doctors anyway, not the people operating at the end of their 12-hour shifts.
The clock strikes 9 o’clock, and I’m wheeled into the operating room. All modesty is gone as I’m splayed out and strapped down to the operating table. I can’t see or feel anything below my chest. A drape hangs in front of my head blocking any possible view. They tell Jordan to sit next to me, but that he’s welcome to look over the sheet if he wants. There is a plastic window in the sheet I can look through. I’m too exhausted to care.
The anesthesiologist assures that I am completely numb, and the work begins.
The OB makes the first incision. Layer upon layer is peeled back. The surgeon announces she’s reached the baby, then Jordan tells me they’ve pulled the head out. The baby is stuck, Jordan tells me. The surgeon is trying to work while also explaining what’s going on, and she says to expect a lot of pressure. Multiple hands are working to pull the baby out.
It takes over a minute to untangle the baby from my insides. I do experience an uncomfortable amount of pressure.
Jordan is supposed to announce the sex of the baby, but all the sudden everyone is saying he, him, and the boy. I can see him now at the baby table. He’s blue.
Jordan watches the effort to revive him, and I’m only half aware of what’s going on. I’m distracted by the tugging as the surgical team pulls out the placenta and puts all of my parts back together. Only later do I find out how truly terrifying this little one’s first few minutes of life were.
I know people say that time stands still and seconds can feel like minutes in emergency situations like these. In our case, we have the surgeon notes to verify. It takes many minutes for the team to revive our new baby. His first Apgar score is four. After five minutes it increases to seven. At 10 minutes they give him to us. Those 10 minutes are an eternity.
Someone remembers it’s Jordan‘s job to announce the sex. He tells me it’s a boy.
They bring the baby and hold him up to me. We try to put him on my chest for skin to skin time, but it’s difficult with the other things going on. The surgeon finishes her work, then talks us through what happened. She apologizes for not making a bigger incision. They weren’t expecting a nine pound baby. We are all surprised by his heft.
I cry. Tears of a new mom whose heart has just tripled in size.
Recovery
With Jordan carrying our unnamed son, I’m wheeled back to our room. We stare at each other. The baby at us and we at him. No one knows what to think.
In a few hours we’ll be taken to our new hospital room, and soon we will begin the long debate about what to name him. For now we’re focused on recovering, and learning more about this creature who has consumed our lives for the last 10 months, and will continue to rule the roost for another 18 years. Later, when one of the nurses tell us that he pooped on the operating room floor, we laugh so hard we cry, and our hearts grow even more.
………………………………………………….
By the numbers:
- 1 – epidural
- 3 – shortest time between contractions, in minutes
- 8 or 9 – centimeters dilated the hospital staff thought I was when I arrived in labor
- 5 – centimeters dilated, assessed after epidural
- 6 – times they tried to put in an IV
- 21:21 – when Lucca was born
- 20.5 – Lucca’s length, in inches
- 9.06 – Lucca’s weight in oz
- 17 – pounds lost in one week (benefits of having a big baby)
- 7 – number of pizza slices eaten in eight days following Lucca’s birth
- 107 – months of consecutive skiing before I quit because of this little nugget
Fun facts:
- We waited two days to name him, in part because we had two names picked out and weren’t sure which one suited him better. On the first day he was Lucca, on the second day he was name #2, then all the sudden it switched and he could only be Lucca. No, we’re not going to tell you the other name!
- Lucca means ‘light’, and also ‘a boy from the Luciano region of Italy’, which is the sunny region where all of the delicious wine and olives are from. Nello is a nickname for Antonello. We named him after our two great grandfathers Luca Tursi and Nello Ciari.
- Each one of this names is five letters long. We didn’t do this on purpose, but I kind of like it.
- We chose not to find out the sex of the baby until birth. This made naming a challenge (see above), but was really exciting when he came out!
- I thought I would have a girl given the history in my family, but most everyone thought it would be a boy. My niece Ellie, who is 3 1/2, was steadfast from the very beginning that it would be a boy. Turns out she was right.
- Lucca shares a birthday with his Great, Great Aunt Nancy. She would have been 97 this year. She was a kind, sweet, generous woman, and we like to think Lucca chose his birthday wisely and that he shares many of her best traits. The jury is out as to whether he’ll be an amazing cook too!
We would NOT have survived the first week if it weren’t for all of the amazing people taking care of us. Our community of friends has blown us away with their thoughtfulness. Mimi & Tony sent pizza and ice cream our first night home. Kemp and Angie fed us twice the first week (smoked chicken and homemade pasta, in case you want something to drool over). Matt and Andrea brought scruffy vegetarian lasagne, Natalie brought quiche, Meagan and Torsten delivered homemade lasagne. And there were many others who already brought food or sent gift cards to order in. And thanks to Allison, who joined us for our inaugural first adventure: a one-block walk in our neighborhood to introduce Lucca to our favorite friends and neighbors.
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