Poppy Jane’s Birth Story: Unmedicated Hospital Delivery on Christmas Day

Trigger warning: this story contains information about pregnancy complications and birth trauma. If you’re worried this may be distressing for you, please feel free NOT to read it. One of the things I wish I’d had was a more gritty, real version of birth to look to (versus all of the positive birth stories I listened to) when I was going through mine, which is why I’m sharing.  But I also understand how my story may be unhelpful if you’re processing your own fears about pregnancy or birth. This is my story. It won’t necessarily be yours. If you do choose to read it, please know that despite the graphic and heartbreaking reality of some of these moments that I am healing +  processing the emotions of this journey in as healthy of a way as possible. There is beauty even in this brokenness.

“I can see our baby’s face!” Mark choked out.

Exhausted and overwhelmed, I remember his voice breaking as he spoke over the beeping of the machines + my own noisy, desperate breathing. “I can see it’s face,” he cried. 

And with those words, I took one final deep breath + gave it everything that I had.

POPPY’S PREDICTIVE PREGNANCY

That moment of Mark’s proclamation is one of the few moments that I remember with incredible clarity from the morning that Poppy was born – the holy and heart-breaking day that split me into a million pieces. It’s funny to think that much of it is lost in my memory somewhere with only bits + pieces shining through, like this one – the moment Mark first saw his child.

I officially became a mom to a living baby on Christmas morning, but the process of becoming a parent actually began weeks + months earlier with the news of a sweet, surprise babe, our baby – a pregnancy that wasn’t planned, but it turns out, one that was desperately wanted.

In the days that followed that positive test, my belly began to grow + so did my love for whoever was inside of it: a mystery boy or girl with tiny toes + perfect pairs of chubby cheeks. I loved those early days of pregnancy where Mark + I dreamed, in secret, about what was to come + how our lives would change come January. 

I’m not sure if I had a difficult pregnancy, and I’ve thought about this a lot – because people who hear about Poppy’s story often ask. And truthfully, I don’t really know how to answer them. I’ve never been pregnant before I was pregnant with Poppy, so her journey is all that I know.

Besides the joy + the morning sickness, my pregnancy did include 3 bleeds, 2 hospital stays, and a preterm labor scare. So, if I had to answer, I guess I’d say yes? I, of course, experienced all of the normal pregnancy things too like nausea and leg pain, difficulty sleeping and food aversions. But in some ways, those all felt par for the course, part of the experience. And I can truthfully say that I adored being pregnant, even with the not-so-lovely side effects that I complained about plenty while I was in it. In truth, I miss it sometimes (even if I don’t miss being constipated for 8 months, ha!)

Officially though, we weren’t medically classed as “high risk”, even with all of the above – maybe more of a “watch this space” pregnancy.

However, there was one other piece of the pregnancy puzzle that may have given us some clues of what was to come if we had known what we were looking at at the time. Hindsight is always 20/20, isn’t it?

WATCHING FOR BABY

29 weeks pregnant was the first time we thought we might be delivering a baby. I was admitted to the hospital with a high risk of going into preterm labor. I was having regular contractions and cramping after having a UTI AND I scored super high on a fetal fibronectin test. You can read more about the whole ordeal here, but the FFN test indicated that I was going to deliver this baby early. In fact, Dr. Teddy told me to expect to deliver between 35 + 36 weeks if the baby didn’t come right then. Poppy was born at 36+4, so he wasn’t far off.

During that same hospital stay, I underwent a series of tests to see where my body + baby were just in case we really did go into labor and needed to deliver extra early. On one of those scans, we discovered that baby was head down, had hair + that my levels of amniotic fluid were mildly elevated. Polyhydramnios. “Nothing to worry about,” they said, “we’ll just check a few extra things, but it’s mostly likely nothing.” (We’d find out later that it wasn’t.)

I was tested for Gestational Diabetes, which can cause excess fluid, + the results came back negative. We did an extra ultrasound to ensure that baby was swallowing and processing amniotic fluid as they should + again, we were given the all clear. Baby had fluid in the kidneys + bladder, so we were told all was functioning well. (Sometimes excess fluid can indicate an issue with baby swallowing, which results in excess fluid buildup. This will be important later.) But even with all of the normal results, we all agreed on a few extra ultrasounds as my due date loomed closer just to be sure. 

At 34 weeks, after walking on pregnancy eggshells since I left the hospital, I was told by both my midwife and doctor that I could RELAX for the rest of the pregnancy. All signs pointed to a normal and healthy baby, I just needed to hang on and they would be here safe + sound, most likely in January as promised. At this point, I finally allowed myself to stop worrying, move on and start prepping for our baby.

HOW TO KNOW IT’S GO TIME

Everyone talks about contractions as the official sign  that things are moving towards delivery time, but I had contractions my entire pregnancy. They started at 16 weeks. They were mild, but constant – more like Braxton Hicks contractions at the beginning. At 29 weeks they started following a pattern, which is what prompted my hospital stay for preterm labor. But even after we believed that baby wasn’t coming at 29 weeks + I was released from the hospital, the contractions continued.

The contractions came + they kept coming, slowly increasing in intensity over the days and weeks. By 33/34 weeks, I was practicing actively breathing through them while doing the dishes or the laundry. I’d pause to put my feet up + allow them to slow down before moving on with my day. They became a constant fixture in those last weeks of pregnancy. They weren’t always consistent, but they were there. 30, 40, 50 a day.

At 35 weeks, after a few days of more + more contractions, I woke up + found that I was bleeding through my pajamas. It was the middle of the night, but to the hospital we went. 

The nurses were sure it was nothing, but asked to do a cervical exam just to confirm – “breathe deeply and bring your feet to your bottom,” they said. I could tell by the look they exchanged that they hadn’t expected what they saw. “We’re really sorry,” they said, “but you aren’t going home tonight. That was your bloody show. You’re dilated to a 3 + we think your baby is coming.”

Spoiler alert: the baby wasn’t coming YET + I wasn’t willing to lay in a hospital bed until it did. I did spend the night in the hospital as a compromise since I was only 35 weeks pregnant. I left the next day with the assurance that my baby would most likely arrive sooner rather than later.

Over the coming days, I scrambled to make freezer meals, pack my hospital bag + organize the baby’s room…all while resting as much as I could to slow the contractions. In the middle of all of this, our midwife dropped by for our 36 week appointment. Mark and I were planning a home birth + I’d been dreaming about my birth experience for months.

Sweet Sarah walked us through her thoughts about all that had been happening + assured us that we were still eligible for a home birth IF the baby waited until 37 weeks (an early term baby) to come, which was a mere 6 days away at this point. She scheduled one last ultrasound for the following day to ensure that a doctor signed off on the safety of our choices + left, leaving me with strict, strict instructions to rest as much as I could. I promised.

For the next few days, the contractions came with increasing regularity + I spent most nights rocking in my nursing chair. Those night time hours were perpetuated by deep breathing + a tightening belly that eventually slowed and stopped as the sun came up. I remember praying, “just a few more days, baby, just a few more days.”

On Thursday, December 23^rd, Mark and I went to our final ultrasound for our little nugget. We almost couldn’t believe it when the technician declared my fluid levels were completely normal. A quick meeting with the doctor gave us the all clear for a happy + healthy home birth as long as the baby waited until Tuesday, December 28^th. We came home from the appointment to a large black box on our doorstep – our birthing pool, ready and waiting. I was so sure things were just going to work out as I’d planned. We were so close.

The following day, Christmas Eve, Mark and I were wrapping gifts + prepping food. We watched Elf + sipped hot cocoa before crawling into bed in my Christmas pjs, excited for the festivities of the next day.

But just as I lay down in bed, a contraction so sharp it stole my breath rocked through me. I shot out of the sheets + told Mark that things were starting up again + that I’d go rest in my chair until they calmed down. He should sleep – I’d be back.

I kissed his cheek + whispered, “We’re 37 weeks in 3 days. If this baby is coming tonight, it’s because I’m supposed to deliver in a hospital.” And then, I tiptoed out the door and pulled it shut behind me.

I tried my best to sit in my nursing chair and breathe through the now familiar rhythmic tightening. I’d do my best to surrender, inhale + exhale through the waves, all while typing away and answering last minute emails in between surges. But as the minutes ticked by, I found it was getting a bit more challenging to just sit through these contractions and I decided to relax myself with a warm shower.

I swept my hair up into a clip, turned on the hot water and waited for the shower to heat. As I stood there, a contraction swept over me and I gripped the shower door until I felt it finally breaking. I stepped into the water + immediately relaxed. I swayed and breathed and waited for the surges to slow…only, they didn’t.

In an effort to really calm my belly, I grabbed the shower head and sprayed water over my stomach and my lower back + sighed at the immense relief.  In that moment, I knew I could handle these pains. I remember looking at the clock; 25 minutes, 45 minutes, nearly an hour and a half passed before I realized the contractions weren’t stopping. I turned off the shower to go and get Mark, but without the water, the next contraction was extremely intense + I immediately turned it back on. The water was doing more than I thought.

“Mark?” I called from the bathroom, “Mark, I need you!” 

Mark groggily made his way into the bathroom at just past midnight + I told him I thought this might actually be it. His eyes suddenly snapped open + he grabbed my phone to start timing contractions. We were both surprised that they were already roughly 3-4 minutes apart. 

I stayed in the shower while I directed Mark on the last few things to throw in our hospital bag + he hurried around the house finalizing what we needed. 

At this point, I realized that I’d accidentally gotten my hair wet from the shower. It’s silly to look back on now, but in that moment, I needed to blow-dry my hair. I told Mark and I couldn’t meet my baby looking bedraggled. And so, he heated up a rice pack to lay on my stomach to calm my contractions outside of the shower + I tentatively made my way to the bedroom.

The contractions were increasing in intensity + I had to stop and sway through each one, bending over the bed and breathing deeply as I’d been taught. They were startling, but I still felt on top of them. If this was what they were, I was sure I’d be fine. And between contractions, I dried my hair + called my parents, letting them know we thought the baby was coming.

My home birth dreams were drifting away with each contraction, but I was determined to labor at home as long as I could. We made our way downstairs where we turned The Holiday on the tv + Mark made me sourdough toast with strawberry jam to eat as we laboured through the early hours of Christmas morning. We sat on the couch between contractions, shaky + excited + scared. 

Before I knew it, my contraction timer was screaming at me that it was time to go to the hospital, but I still didn’t feel ready. I wanted to be in my own space. But the contractions were coming one after the other, 1 minute apart, then 2, then 1 again and I knew it was time to call.

“I’m sorry, but you’re in preterm labor at 36 weeks. We need you to come into the hospital right now,” said the voice on the other line. And just like that, we grabbed all of the bags and locked the door on our old lives. We got into the car at 2am knowing that we’d never come home just the two of us ever again.

We arrived at the hospital and were taken to triage, where they asked if they could check my cervix again. (I know I had the choice not to have cervical checks, but I actually found them helpful.) As I started to undress with Mark’s help, I felt the shakes overtake me and I threw up every bit of toast I’d just eaten. And with that simple act, the contractions suddenly changed. I couldn’t even pull my leggings back on by myself when we were finished.

I was told that I was dilated to a 5/6 at this point and was being moved to a delivery room. A midwife helped show Mark and I down the hall, pausing as I dropped into a squat and held onto the counter with each contraction. Slowly + shakily, but surely, we made it to where our baby would be born.

I started feeling scared by the intensity of each wave. They were coming one after the other without much break in-between + I was struggling to regroup before the next one started. I wondered when in this process women had time to think about essential oils or twinkle lights to decorate their rooms when I could barely stand. The nurses started giving me directions about fetal monitoring and how to lay + in that moment, I lost all ability to advocate for myself despite the months of planning and research I’d done. The experience of progressing labor was so overwhelming, it was all I could do to cry and crawl onto the bed with a monitor on my belly. I felt so vulnerable.

Because my heart was to deliver my baby unmedicated, we decided to try the nitrous oxide (gas and air) to help me cope with the intensity of what was happening to me. I held the mask to my face and breathed deep with an oncoming contraction. I turned to Mark and told him that I felt funny, but that I still felt everything. It was like being slightly drunk, but not in a good way. I felt sick + spacey + still in pain, but the mask was the only thing helping me to remember to breathe when each surge hit.

As my labor progressed, I lost all ability to cope. I wailed and breathed and felt out of control of my body as each contraction seemed to rip through me. My body didn’t even feel like mine. Time during labor is also unlike anything I’ve ever experienced – every minute felt like both an hour and a second. I can’t remember most of the details of the time I spent lying in the delivery bed.

What I do remember, however, is a doctor coming into the room after what seemed like hours. She bent down, right in front of my face and touched my cheek. “Jessica,” she said, “you are not handling this. This pain has control of you. You are involuntarily pushing right now and we can’t have you do that. So, you either need to make a decision to have some pain relief or you need to get yourself together. Breathe with me – innnnnnn and outtttt.”

In hindsight, this doctor’s actions have made me realize why a doula is such an essential part of delivery for so many women – especially unmedicated. My husband was by my side for the entire experience of labor, but he was just as traumatized by watching me experience so much pain as I was by being in it. I wish that I had someone in my face, coaching me the entire birth. I think if I had had that experience earlier on, my ability to cope would have been different.

I remember looking at Mark, as the doctor stood with me + crying. “I can’t do it,” I said, “I think I need the epidural. I’m not strong enough.” But Mark took my hands and assured me that I was, that he knew how much I wanted an unmedicated birth. They checked me again + I was at an 8. We decided to keep going – I was in transition.

After the doctor left, a switch flipped and my focus changed. I poured all of my strength and ability into concentrating on breathing in for 6 counts and out for 8. In and out. In and out. And before I knew it, I was at 10 centimetres.

In total, I labored at the hospital for 6 hours before being ready to push.

Because I’d prepared for a home birth, my plan had been to have a midwife I knew deliver my baby. She knew my birth preferences and desires. I felt safe with her. The midwife who actually delivered my baby had never met me before + sadly, I feel she really negatively impacted my birth. She wanted my feet in stirrups. She wanted me to hold my breath and bare down to push. I’m not blaming her for my lack of ability to command my own experience, but I do feel like I was told what to do rather than allowed to listen to my body + do what felt right. I was scared + I followed her directions.

My entire pregnancy, I’d listened to or read birth stories (hundreds and hundreds) that talked about how much different pushing was than laboring – that it was purposeful and felt like relief. In my own moments of starting to push, I felt lied to. I actually think that pushing out my baby was the hardest part of my delivery experience. Every push felt like my body was exploding. It felt all wrong.

With each contraction, I tried to bare down and push as I was instructed, but the pain scared me. I remember crying that it hurt + the midwife responded with, “I know it hurts, but it’s just going to hurt more.” I have so much compassion for myself looking back on this moment – what I needed was the birth professional to champion me + tell me that I WAS doing it and that I COULD do it + how powerful and incredible I was…but that wasn’t my experience and I think it really did prolong this stage – even with my husband cheering me on.

Because I was scared + holding back, as each contraction came, my body actually eventually took over. The fetal ejection reflex kicked in + my body literally pushed for me. There was nothing I could do to stop it – almost like the uncontrollable feeling of a dry heave, my body literally bore down without my consent. It was absolutely wild and overwhelming and incredible all at once.

After 30 minutes of pushing, the midwife asked to break my water + I was so desperate for relief that I consented. However, a small trickle is all that made its way out. The baby’s head was already in the birth canal and blocking the release of my fluids, so I just kept pushing.

During each push, I screamed + squeezed Mark’s hand so hard I’m shocked I didn’t break it. As the contractions went on, I felt more and more of a burning sensation and knew the baby was close. With the next push, the midwife directed me to slow down and pant as she helped ease the baby’s head out. With this came Mark’s emotional exclamation about our baby’s face + it was just the encouragement I needed to give everything I had with the next contraction.

With one final push, our baby exploded into the world along with a tidal wave of amniotic fluid and blood. I have never felt such relief in my entire life. Before I could catch my breath, a slippery baby was thrown onto my chest + I heard Mark declare that we had a baby girl. I had pushed for just over an hour.

I couldn’t believe it. I was so convinced that little nug was a boy that my mind could not compute we had a SHE. A sweet girl. I was more overwhelmed with joy than I’ve ever been. I sobbed + looked down at my beautiful baby…but then she was gone.

Just as quickly as she was given to me, she was taken away – whisked to the corner of the room. And things suddenly got crazy.

A nurse hit a large button on the wall and the alarms all started sounding. Doctors and nurses began pouring into the room. As I desperately tried to clear the fog of labor from my head and hear or see what was happening with my baby, I heard the doctors talking about me.

“Where is all of this blood coming from?”

“Where’s her placenta, is it complete?”

“We need an OR. Now.”

And just like that, someone was holding my hand, explaining that they were going to take care of my baby, but she needed to go with them. Did I want my husband to stay with me or go with my baby?

“Go, Mark. Go with her,” I said through my tears. I remember he looked so confused, so torn + then turned and followed the gurney with the tiny baby on it out the door and down the hall.

I laid in the bed with my feet still in stirrups, shaking, with tears pouring down my cheeks as someone explained that they believed I had significant internal damage and needed surgery now. 

“Was I okay with a blood transfusion?” 

“Was I ready for an epidural?” 

“Don’t worry, someone would get my husband to meet me in the OR.”

I think I nodded, but I don’t remember. 

All I could think about was my girl. 

I had a girl. 

I prayed she’d still be here when I came out of surgery, but I didn’t know.

“This isn’t how it’s supposed to be,” I thought as they pushed my broken body through the same doorway as my baby and turned the opposite direction.

Because of the intensity of our birth journey + NICU stay, I have decided to split this post into pieces. This is part 1. Part 2 will cover my surgery + Poppy’s initial weeks in the NICU. But please know, if you’re finishing this + feeling the weight of this day, our little girl is home with us + completely healthy. Not everyone with a story like ours gets given that gift, but we did leave the hospital at 6 weeks old with a little girl who has just continued to thrive. I wouldn’t want to leave anyone upset or burdened by our journey because I chose to end this portion of the blog on such an emotional moment. You can see some of her progress here.

If there’s something you’d like me to cover or address in Part 2, please leave it down below in the comments! We want our story to help or empower anyone that it can.

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