Me & Diego Zuma's Birth Story

I almost can’t believe that this time two years ago I was screaming in pain, crying on the floor of the hospital room, and desperate to help my baby son out of my body. I have never felt so grateful, nor have I felt so humbled, as I do from having given birth. I write this to honor him, my brave baby, and to honor my body for all it has accomplished. They say each birth is different, unique to the woman in labor, and that no matter her "plan," she will be presented with the perfect individual challenge for her to overcome. Diego’s birth was both the very best it could be and also not what I wanted or planned for. At all. Not in the slightest. It brought me to my knees, literally. But it also opened up a beautiful, intense world of experiences for me. It was the best of times, it was the worst of times...

It started with a routine checkup.

It was a Sunday afternoon. Father’s Day. Sunny, sticky, and hot. Damian’s practicality and some superstition on my part caused us to pack the labor bag and, with much groaning and waddling from me, we made our way to the train. The cool subway car never felt so good. Even in my flowy pink boho dress, I looked so uncomfortably pregnant, people instinctively moved away. The Friday prior, I had been told my amniotic fluids were low, but since the baby and I had been so healthy and strong throughout my pregnancy, I didn’t honestly believe anything was really wrong. We went to meet the doctor, still planning for Damian to play his band’s show that evening, and I was calm as the nurse squirted blue gel on my belly and began to wave the ultrasound wand around.

“No fluids,” she said.

We needed to get the baby out right away! As I was already in triage, the preparations began for admittance and induction. They wrapped my belly with a pink and blue band to hold the heart rate monitor and stuck an IV port in my wrist. My blood pressure and temperature were taken half a dozen times and I answered the same battery of questions at least that much. How many weeks am I? Have I been pregnant before? Does my husband beat me? Fearing my fate, I called my doctor as a last-ditch effort to find an alternative to induction and was transferred instead to the midwife: blonde and serene, straightforward, and absolutely maddening as she described what was to transpire that evening.

“Better eat now,” she said. “And try to sleep if you can.” So Damian went out and returned with a Mexican Coke and the best steak I’ve ever had. And while I would not sleep for quite some time, as I hadn’t already for a few days, we settled in for the adventure to come. A couple hours later, the midwife returned. She informed us that we would begin with a pill, a cervical ripener called Cytotech that dissolves in the cervix to help it open, but, she admitted, rarely works on the first dose. If it worked, they’d insert a balloon that would inflate against my cervix, simulating the baby’s head, to help it open further. After that, I’d be given Pitocin through my IV.

Ready to pop.

I bristled immediately at this “cascade” of interventions, having spent the majority of my pregnancy reading Ina May Gaskin’s Guide to Childbirth and preparing for a natural labor in the birthing center. I cross-examined the midwife ruthlessly, trying to find alternatives or figure a way out. But eventually, I understood that despite her polite, open tone, I really had no say about what was to happen. I made demands for impossible things, trying to keep control of the situation (apparently a theme for me). Damian told me to relax. That the details I was harping about weren’t a big deal. And although I snapped at him, I suppose my outright bitchiness was really just a defense mechanism to hide my absolute terror of what was coming. I wasn’t afraid of the pain — not yet, at any rate — but of the 80% C-section rate associated with inductions on account of low fluids. Moreover, I would have to stay in bed for hours to be monitored, which at that point seemed like the greatest torture because it also meant being connected to the IV, shifted around like a ragdoll by the nurse, and using a bed pan (insult of all insults).

I was smack dab in the middle of what I felt was the classic hospital birth nightmare.

I was miles away from my peaceful birthing center plan of water, rhythmic breathing, relaxation, and hip circles. In all my preparations for birth, I had never heard of oligohydramnios, the technical term for my low fluids, and had never even seriously considered the possibility of induction. I was mad as hell I couldn’t get up and move around like I planned, couldn’t bounce and sway on my birth ball, or relax in my bikini in the bathtub. Nevertheless, my doula Michelle, my cousin Sarah, and Damian made a little party of it, and we passed the time waiting for the contractions to start by listening to music, sneaking me bites of watermelon, and spritzing my face luxuriously with rose water.

For hours I felt nothing, or nothing that I knew to identify as a contraction.

Due to my massive attitude about being confined to the bed and an intense desire to use the bathroom by myself (like a person!), I was allowed off the monitor for an hour while they prepared another dose of Cytotech. Michelle later said that hour, upon which I had so vehemently insisted, saved me. After some blessed alone time in the bathroom and stretching my legs, I returned to my birth ball and we started timing what I finally felt as contractions. They weren’t more than menstrual cramps, and frankly hurt less than regular pregnancy pains, but they were already two minutes apart. Within 45 minutes, we were in business and I was elated to be in labor. I was excited it was finally happening. I was excited to meet my baby and tried not to focus on my fear. As the surges intensified, we counted, breathed, imagined flowers opening up, and tried to relax. It was truly lovely.

Then, my water broke.

It was as if a switch had been flipped. All at once, my contractions came on full force. A stabbing, overwhelming pain from the deepest part of my belly, spreading throughout my pelvis, coupled with an intense downward pressure that was bizarrely uncomfortable.

As the barest trickle of amniotic fluid made its way down my leg all at once it hit me how dire my baby’s situation was and what a shithead I’d been to resist the hospital’s efforts to get him out safely. Suddenly, I was crouched over the bedpan and sobbing hysterically with guilt and fear and emotions I still cannot name. I was a screaming wild animal on the floor.

I would not stop screaming for hours.

I screamed as the kind blonde midwife and nurse pried my legs apart to insert the balloon — clearly another dose of Cytoech wasn’t necessary — and it was misery. I screamed as my hip flexors cramped. I screamed as Michelle and Damian tried to cool my face, help me relax and not hyperventilate, and tell me I was doing great. Many moms I spoke with said their labor pain was indescribable, but I knew exactly how to describe it: seppuku, traditional Samurai suicide by self-evisceration. I have never known pain like that before and am confident that nothing by comparison will ever really hurt again. I writhed and swore, counted down from eight, squatted on the bed holding on to the side rails, beat the pillows with my hands, swore and yelled some more.

Soon all that rage turned to genuine fear.

Fear of the next contraction, which was always less than a minute away. Fear of my ability to eventually help my baby out of me. Fear of my baby's well-being. Fear of more pain. Not long after the fear turned to desperation and my screams were cries for help. I’m not at all ashamed of this. I really, really needed help and knew it in my twisting, burning gut. All I wanted was an hour. A break. A nap to reset.

When the midwife offered an epidural, I thanked heaven. Thing was, we were only a couple hours into labor. My contractions had intensified so fast I didn’t have time to become accustomed to the pain before it increased tenfold. It was like barely beating the first level of Super Mario Bros. and suddenly fighting Bowser. My husband left the room when the anesthesiologist arrived. His heart was breaking watching me writhe in pain and begging for mercy. He needed a break.

Tell you the truth, I was a little relieved.

Some part of me was still trying to look out for him during the drama and I knew it must be hard to witness and not really be able to help. The epidural took forever because I kept having contractions. The midwife, to whom I’d been so mean to, was literally forehead to forehead with me. Her arms wrapped around me to both comfort and keep me still. I sat slumped at the edge of the bed, literally crying as my insides contorted, but I was calmer knowing that relief was on the way.

It came just in time. As soon as I laid back to catch my breath, the beeping from the heart monitor either stopped or went insane – I honestly can’t remember which – and suddenly there were ten people in the room, including my doctor, whom I was very glad to see. Within minutes it seemed like there were three pairs of hands inside me, numerous tubes and clamps and bags and who-knows-whats, and I didn’t even care. I just laid there in complete surrender, in complete gratitude to be in the hospital and in the hands of experts, thinking of women in huts all over the world. Thinking of worlds where there are no ultrasounds or air-conditioned hospital rooms or sweet-faced midwives or heart rate monitors or epidurals or doulas or wonderful husbands. I still feel intense waves of gratitude for the experts who helped me. For all the wonderful things the hospital has to offer. For all my friends and family and all they do for us. I believe natural childbirth is great for normal birth, but in me and Diego's case, things weren't normal. And I feel incredibly lucky to have had all the brilliant people and life-saving interventions on our side.

He’s here!

Anyway, it turned out to be a good thing I was numb, not only because of the numerous hands and tubes and procedures, but because apparently the contractions were too intense, coming right on top of one another, and too much for my baby. They gave me a drug that slowed the contractions down, an internal heart rate monitor for my little man, and a catheter pouring fluids back into my desert womb so he could float and not crush his umbilical cord. After a few moments, everything worked. The baby was doing better and we were left alone. I laid back blissfully knowing my baby was safe, relieved that the terrifying pain had subsided, and that he (and I) would both be OK. Michelle and Damian shivered and snoozed in their respective chairs, but I didn’t sleep.

I closed my eyes and went into the deepest meditation of my life.

While I'll keep the details of what I saw and felt between us to ourselves, the short version is that I was able to truly connect with him, feel his efforts and fears, and understand what a choice it was to be born. What a brave and active agent he was in his own birth. I encouraged him in every way I could and promised to help. I had always feared epidurals because I thought it would be terrible to feel stuck, paralyzed, and unable to assist my baby, but I found instead that, undistracted by my own pain, I was able to focus entirely on opening up and helping my baby out. Eyes closed or open, it was impossibly beautiful and I am forever grateful for being able to see and feel what I did that morning.

Soon the doctor found I was nine centimeters dilated and almost ready to go. It took me a second to figure out the choreography (turns out, pushing out a baby is NOT like Pilates at all) but once I got going I found I liked pushing. Everyone coached me and helped me hold my breath and curl my legs up to push outwards during contractions. We listened to James Brown, Rick James, and Zapp, switching over to some heavier Iron Maiden as the baby crowned and I could feel everything.

I was so psyched to be able to help my baby out, shouting with effort in between gulps of oxygen.

Finally, my doctor said, “Annie, look…” As I peered down and pushed one final thrust, out he came! Diego was here! Perfect, purple, and yelling. I was also yelling and laugh-crying with elation. I’ll never forget the look on Damian’s face at that moment — awed, relieved, happy, a tear or two of joy. We brought the baby right up on my chest and I felt him. His delicious smell, the tiny perfection of him… it was wonderful, absolutely wonderful.

So, on June 19th, 2017 at 11:37 a.m., after 12 hours of labor, Diego Zuma Rodriguez made his way into the world, and a giant double rainbow stretched across New York City :)

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Annie