Every birth story is unique. In our series, “My Birth Story,” we’ve asked moms from all over the world to share their experiences of how they welcomed their little ones into the world. Here, you'll find a range of stories, from moms who delivered vaginally or via C-section, alone or surrounded by family, even some moms who gave birth in under an hour. Their perspectives may all be different — but each one powerfully illustrates the emotion and beauty of giving birth.
I always imagined giving birth would be like what I saw in the movies: My husband would start timing my contractions as we sat next to each other in bed under a puffy comforter at 2:21 AM.
A trickle, a gush! “My water broke,” I’d say. My handsome husband would grab my perfectly packed overnight bag and off we’d go to the hospital.
I’d demand that epidural immediately. My husband would refill the cup of ice chips over and over — and over again. Then I’d start pushing, my husband letting me squeeze his hand until my knuckles looked bone white and ready to pop out.
Pushing, pushing, push — “One more,” the doctor would say…then, a mighty wail from our baby…then a baby on my chest.
That is not my birth story.
Mine is much different.
When I was 25, I met a tall, handsome man. We were both living in New York City and had a whirlwind love fest. It was such a whirlwind, we were pregnant about nine weeks later! I was working as an underpaid magazine assistant editor. He was working in public relations and crashing on his friend’s couch. It was not ideal.
We decided to keep the baby. But then the boyfriend left.
My girlfriends quickly assembled into an army of ready-and-willing (and stunned) surrogates. (I learned from day one it takes a village.)
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My best friend, Nicole, who worked in fashion, thrust a beautiful Gucci duffel bag into my hands and choked over her words: “I’m not sure what to do in this situation. This can be your hospital overnight bag.”
So, to back up, from the very beginning, nothing about my pregnancy went as I had imagined it would. Instead of jumping up and down with a husband and a pee stick in my hand, I did, well, same, with luxury goods in SoHo and my best friend.
My OB/GYN also put a kink in my dream pregnancy. She explained I needed a planned C-section when I was just 12 weeks along.
When I was 16 years old, I had a complete spinal fusion to correct an aggressive case of scoliosis. On January 29, 1997, my orthopedic surgeon attached titanium rods, screws and wires to my entire spinal cord over a 10-hour surgery. I spent nine days in the children’s unit at Columbia Presbyterian in New York City and was home-schooled for two months while I recovered at home and went to physical therapy. It was a huge life event that has helped me measure my pain, anxiety and general life crises — nine out of 10 times, that spinal operation and recovery was the worst thing I’ve ever experienced, but came with a glimmering silver lining that’s helped me carry on when curve balls come flying at my head.
The need for a C-section was to avoid two things: the pressure of back labor and pushing, plus the fact I have limited mobility along my spinal cord. It's not that dramatic: I can walk and dance. But something I can’t do is a crunch. (I’ve had to find other ways to tone my abs over the years!) Bottom line: my spinal surgery posed physical roadblocks to vaginal childbirth, and I was an insurance liability.
My OB/GYN scheduled my C-section nine days before my due date. On August 30, 2007, my older brother picked me up at my apartment and drove me to the hospital. There, my mom, dad, younger brother and 87-year-old nanny were already in the maternity waiting room — as eager as Horton hatching that egg!
Since I was pre-registered, I slipped into a hospital gown and under a heated blanket. The nurse started an IV and the anesthesiologist — with whom I’d had a consultation a few weeks prior — came in, greeting me like an old friend.
After reviewing the X-Ray of my spine he was 99 percent certain he could safely and efficiently administer a spinal to numb me from tummy to feet. However, because my surgery was a decade prior to giving birth, there was tons of (normal) scar tissue. He told me there was a chance the spinal might not work and then I’d need to be put under and miss the birth of my boy — which was a huge problem for me. But all I could do was pray it worked.
When it was time, my family kissed me goodbye and I walked into the OR. It was cold and smelled medicinal. The nurse helped me onto the operating table — this is when the nerves set in. This is when the tears came. I was crying for a lot of reasons. I was about to become a 26-year-old single mother who made $34,000 working as an assistant editor at a magazine. My ex, the father, knew today was the day. My subconscious had protected me for nine months, but in that moment — about to bring our boy into the world — it hit me that my son’s father was missing his birth. Then I started to panic because the anesthesiologist told me to crouch over best I could so he could administer the spinal. I felt a bee sting. That was the local anesthetic. I did not feel pain when the spinal was administered. I felt some pressure. Then everything happened at warp speed.
The nurse laid me down. My legs flushed with heat. The doctor started asking me if I could feel this or that — I didn’t feel anything but he was pinching me with a clamp. The spinal worked. I would be awake and present for my son’s birth!
My mom appeared at my side. A curtain was pulled up in front of my face. It felt like someone was unzipping my bikini line. It didn’t hurt, but I was aware something was happening. The doctor said, “You’re going to feel some pressure.”
I did. It felt like a giant bag of sand was on my chest. I couldn’t take a breath. As I said, “I can’t breathe ...”
The doctor said, “He’s out!”
The nurse said, “He’s peeing in on me!”
A baby bird let out a chirp — it was my son’s tiny but mighty cry.
My mother placed his face next to mine. I looked into his eyes and said, “Hello, Jack Domenic, I’ve been waiting for you.”
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