The Birth Story
On motherhood: Tears soaked my face and your dad’s shirt, blood soaked the bed, but still no baby.
July Fourteenth. Midnight.
“My water just broke,” I said to your dad.
I had just laid down in bed when the warm liquid poured out of me.
I remember feeling so happy and so calm.
36 weeks and 5 days pregnant.
You were early, but I wasn’t scared.
I was ready.
The hospital bag wasn’t packed, the bassinet wasn’t set up, I hadn’t picked out your going home outfit, the nursery wasn’t decorated, and I didn’t get a chance to do any of the things I’d planned to do with you our last three weeks together as one.
But mentally, I was ready.
Emotionally, I was ready.
In all the ways of the soul, I was ready.
Your dad was worried because it happened so early. He wanted to go to the hospital right away, but I said no. I wanted to labor at home for as long as I could. I took a shower and silently welcomed you. I meditated, packed the hospital bag, and cuddled your dog brothers. By then, three hours had passed and I started to feel a sense of urgency.
It was time.
I cried when I kissed your dog brothers goodbye — partly because I knew I wouldn’t get to see them for a few days, but also because when I returned I knew things would be different.
3:30 am
We arrived at the hospital and the contractions were getting stronger with each passing minute, but I could still walk and talk without much strain. The nurse brought a wheelchair even though I told them I didn’t need it. They wheeled me to a triage room. The television was on and it was difficult for me to relax. They strapped a monitor around you and examined me.
Your heart rate was good.
I was dilated at 7.
They wheeled me into my hospital room and we waited. It was bottom-of-the-well black outside so I couldn’t tell if we had a view from our window. My contractions were starting to kick up and I felt myself getting lost.
Our doula Jessica arrived. She told me to relax my jaw and release my hands. She helped me find myself again.
5:28 am
I breathed through each contraction. A machine was beeping. Jessica got me out of the bed and had me walk around. She had me lean on the bed. She had me chew ice chips.
“I feel claustrophobic,” I said.
Breathing became harder. I leaned on your dad. In. Out. My breath shook. Your dad held me and rubbed my back. I sat on a birthing ball and rocked back and forth. I chugged water. Both Jessica and your dad held me by the hands. I started to cry. I got up and lunged from side to side to create space for you.
5:57 am
Your dad brought my head into his hands.
“You’re doing so good, babe,” he said.
I cried again. I got on my hands and knees and leaned over the top of the bed.
“Baby is moving down,” said a nurse.
6:18 am
The sun started to rise and I could finally see the view. The sky was gold and fog covered the top of the mountains. Everything looked blurry through the pain. I lay on my side. Contraction after contraction, I breathed. I cried.
My doctor came in. She watched. She waited. More contractions.
She said, “Jessy, you’re doing awesome. I am so impressed by you, girl.”
6:38 am
They moved me into the tub to try and help me relax. Jessica said contractions are like peaks and valleys and I should focus on the valley — the release — not the peak. I tried, but the pain was mounting. I writhed around in the tub. My moans echoed off the walls. My doctor said to get back into bed so she could check how dilated I was.
9 1/2.
“You’ll have a baby before noon,” she said.
I cried again, but this time it was because I was so happy. I could make it until then. I’d made it this far.
But noon came, tears soaked my face and your dad’s shirt, blood soaked the bed, but still no baby.
My labor had stalled.
12:11 pm
I caved and got the epidural. I was so exhausted I could barely keep my eyes open. I didn’t feel the needle and when the drugs took hold of me it was an all-encompassing relief. I could no longer feel the contractions. I couldn’t feel anything but the anticipation to meet you and the guilt for not being able to stick it out without the drugs. I guess I wasn’t as strong as I always thought I was. I’m sorry, darling. I wanted to be strong enough for you.
They strapped the monitor around my belly and I watched the lines move up and down on the screen with each contraction. They said your heartbeat was good. They said there was nothing to worry about.
Once I knew you were okay, I fell asleep.
2:05 pm
When I woke up, they checked me again — still 9 1/2. They gave me Pitocin to speed things up. I was starting to feel the contractions again and they suggested I start pushing.
So, I did. Nonstop. For four hours.
I pushed on my back, I pulled on a scarf to lift myself up against the pushing, Jessica and your dad held my legs so I had leverage to push against—we tried everything that you could possibly try. My body was beyond tired. I couldn’t lift my head. I had such bad heartburn that I could hardly breathe. I kept throwing up. My eyes were smeared black with day-old makeup, my hair was matted, and my face was already starting to swell from the drugs.
3:32 pm
They positioned a mirror so I could see you being born. The doctor said they could see your hair.
Your dad leaned into me so our foreheads touched.
He said, “Did hear that, babe? Our baby has hair.”
So much joy filled me at that moment that I started to cry because I thought you’d be in my arms in a matter of moments, maybe another push or two.
But I was wrong.
I pushed and pushed and nothing. The doctor suggested vacuuming you out but I said no. I didn’t want you to come into the world that way.
5:53 pm
Your dad climbed into bed with me while I pushed. He supported my back with his body. So tender, but so strong.
6:46 pm
They said I’d need to have a c-section because they couldn’t allow me to push for more than four hours. I asked them if I could try one more position and they said yes. I had the nurse shut off my epidural so that I could feel my lower half and I kneeled onto the bed and held onto the back of it to push. The doctor and nurses all said they saw progress—they could still see your head and it was moving with each push. I thought that meant I’d get to hold you soon.
But I was wrong. Again.
After pushing for another hour, nothing. I tried so hard, my darling. I truly believed you were coming. I thought I could do it.
I am so sorry.
7:37 pm
They prepped the operating room for a c-section. I asked them if there was anything else we could do and they called in another doctor who specialized in cesareans. She said you were stuck in the birth canal and that it was good that I said no to the vacuum because you were so jammed that it would’ve made things worse. But now, a c-section was my only choice.
I tried so hard, baby. Please forgive me. Not only did I fail you, but I made things worse for you. I was so determined. So damn stubborn. I should’ve had the c-section when they first suggested it. I shouldn’t have pushed so much. Maybe then you wouldn’t have gotten stuck. I’m so sorry, my little love. You deserve so much better than what I could give you.
The epidural had worn off completely and I was in agony. My body was already so broken and it had to prepare for something even more brutal than what I’d just gone through. I needed to mentally wrap my head around what was going to happen to me — happen to us — but I couldn’t. The pain had turned my mind into a war zone. I couldn’t breathe.
Your dad had been by my side through the whole thing, but we had to part ways at the operating room because he had to get into a gown, gloves, and mask before entering. My heart ached as his fingers slid out of mine and they pushed me through the double doors into the operating room. Bright lights, gloved hands, and the smell of alcohol — I was so delirious with pain and exhaustion that I could hardly speak. The anesthesiologist stuck another needed into my spine and the pain started to fade.
Two men lifted me from the hospital bed onto the operating table and put a blue paper tarp up from my waist down so that I couldn’t see what was going on. I was shivering uncontrollably and my teeth were banging together. They spread my arms out and slid my wrists under straps that were tied to the table so that I couldn’t move my arms.
I was crying and I wanted your dad.
I wanted you.
The anesthesiologist was yelling out the time until surgery.
“Five minutes! Where’s dad?”
A voice from across the room said, “He’s getting suited up.”
“He better get in here. He’s going to miss it!”
“Three minutes!”
“Two minutes!”
Your dad came rushing in and sat beside me.
“One minute!”
My hands were shaking but your dad couldn’t hold them. I was still strapped down. He brought his forehead to mine and started to cry. I could hear voices but I couldn’t make out what they were saying.
Your dad began to sing my favorite song to drown out the voices, the beeping, and the clanking of metal. All I could hear was Master & A Hound by Gregory Alan Isakov in your dad’s shaking voice, but it didn’t block out the pressure I felt from them cutting you out of my body. I listened to the words he sang and cried and felt them yanking on you to get you out of the birth canal. It felt like I was going to slide off the table.
Yank. Yank. Yank.
I hated that they had their sterile glove-covered hands on you. I wanted so bad to see you but all I could see was blue. I tried to focus on your dad. His face was lost under a mask and cap and only his dark eyes peeked out. They were filled with water and his eyelashes stuck together with tears. He was still singing. Then the yanking finally stopped and I heard you cry.
8:32 pm
You were here.
They called your dad over to meet you.
But I couldn’t see you. I couldn’t hold you. I slid my wrists out of the straps but I couldn’t feel my body. I couldn’t move. I was helpless. Lifeless. Useless. I needed to get to you, but I couldn’t. I couldn’t do a damn thing but look up at the blue.
I listened to your dad talking to you. I missed those first few moments of you both together. I missed you taking your first breath. I missed your arrival — your birth. This was supposed to be our moment. This time was supposed to be ours. But I missed everything. A room full of people and I was the last to meet you.
My face should’ve been the first face you saw. Your skin should’ve been against mine. I needed to hold you and to feed you. I needed to kiss your hands and your head. I needed to look into your eyes and touch your cheeks.
I needed you.
The doctor put my wrists back under the straps and I could feel the pressure again.
“Is he okay?”
They rearranged my organs.
“Where is he?”
They closed me up.
“Can I see him?”
It was as if no one could hear me. I felt so cold and I couldn’t stop shaking. My skin crawled from all the drugs. I slid my wrists out to scratch my face, but it didn’t help. I felt forgotten. Abandoned. The doctors, the lights, your cries — everything circled around me but I had nothing but the blue. I was trapped. Lost. I thought I was dead.
8:46 pm
Finally, Jessica sat beside me and pulled out her phone. Her mouth was masked but I could see that her eyes were smiling. She showed me a photo of you and it split me in two. I was so relieved to see your face, to see that you were okay. But I hated that the first time I saw you was through a screen.
Sterile. Removed. Separated.
Your face was swollen and you were still covered in blood and vernix. Your head was bruised and bleeding from being jammed into my pelvic bone with every push. Oh, my little love, I am so sorry. I should’ve known. I should’ve protected you.
8:47 pm
“Where is he?”
“Can I hold him?”
I could still hear you crying. I closed my eyes and tried to locate your face in my mind. The swollen, tired face that I already loved with my whole being. I heard your voice getting louder. Closer. When I opened my eyes Jessica was holding you over me. She looked for a place to lay you on my chest that wasn’t covered in tubes and wires.
You were still crying.
9:13 pm
She placed your tiny warm body on top of me and I felt an immense calm wash over both of us. I cradled you with my still shaking arms and stroked your little red cheek.
“Hi baby, you did so good,” I said.
You immediately stopped crying. My touch. My voice. My warmth. You knew me from the very beginning.
I started to cry. “You did so good, my brave little one,” I said.
“You’re so brave. You’re so brave. You’re so brave.”
I said it over and over and rolled the pad of my thumb against the softness of your face.
You stared at me with this beautiful look of peace.
I couldn’t believe you were finally here. You were finally in my arms. There would be so much recovery ahead for both of us, but at that moment, I had everything I ever wanted.
I had you.
See the rest of the birth story photo series on my Instagram @jessytai here.