A Different Kind of Birth Story

Léo bell-genois, born sept. 10, 2020, at 3:02 p.m. weighing 8.8 pounds and measuring 21 inches long. we grow them big!

This one has a happy ending, I promise.

First, a recap and some background.

Since my first delivery was by c-section, this pregnancy had a particular kind of care because I was trying for a VBAC: “vaginal birth after cesarean.” This created a bit of a dark cloud over the pregnancy, calling for extra, late-term ultrasounds and closer watch over things like the possibility of gestational diabetes. Also, because Benji was born at 9.1 pounds, even as late as he was at 41.2 weeks, it was considered “macrosomia” - an abnormally large baby - and made it possible that this second baby would also be large, thereby making a VBAC harder, or at least riskier, to achieve. I was eventually told that I would be “allowed” to wait until 41 weeks, and if the baby wasn’t born by then, it would be a scheduled c-section. Induced labor was not an option with a late-term VBAC and a history of “macrosomia.” While I was devastated by the idea that I wouldn’t be allowed to “try” after 41 weeks, I was at least encouraged that I could wait until the baby was full term. (At one point we thought I might only be allowed to wait until 39 weeks, but an ob/gyn overruled this.)

And then there was the Ultrasound from Hell at 36 weeks.

I had four ultrasounds this pregnancy: the standard two, at 12 and 20 weeks, another a few weeks later to make sure the placenta wasn’t too low for a natural birth (it wasn’t), and yet another at 36 weeks because the doctor who performed the previous ultrasound worried about the size of the baby and thought it best to keep tabs on it since I was a VBAC case.

I wish I hadn’t gone.

Midwives don’t perform ultrasounds, but send you to the hospital where they are done by ob/gyn’s, not technicians like I would have thought (or is perhaps done in other hospitals). For this 36 week ultrasound, I had the most disagreeable man. Not only was he incredibly impolite and borderline inappropriate - he would rest his arm, and with it, a lot of his weight, across my thighs while he fiddled around on the computer - he was arrogant and did little to hide his condescension toward midwifery. After taking a few pictures and literally tossing them onto my belly along with a towel and cold instructions to “wipe myself off,” he set about lecturing me against a VBAC, telling me my child was, “according to his calculations,” already 8 pounds and that it was not healthy for a woman of my size to be carrying a child that big. He also told me that he was certain that I had gestational diabetes, to which I politely informed him that I had been tested for, not once, but twice, recently, and that I did not have it. He didn’t care about this information and insisted I had it. (Um, WTF?) He upset me so much that I walked out on him mid-sentence, unable to hold back my tears any longer. I sobbed and sobbed, all the way out of the hospital, where it was, of course, RAINING, and I didn’t have an umbrella. I could not believe that I was back here again - at the mercy of some strange doctor who doesn’t know me, or my case, who just handed down a ruling that could completely change the course of my birth experience, and I had no way to stop it.

When I composed myself enough to drive home and do some research, I found that late-pregnancy ultrasounds are notoriously imprecise at predicting birth weight. And what’s more, the fact of having a potentially large baby is not a complete roadblock for a VBAC - yes, it makes things harder, but it isn’t a reason not to try if you wish to do so. The only thing - the Only, One Thing - that tells you if you can succeed a VBAC, is the trial of labor. In other words - there is no way to truly predict whether you can do it, unless you try to do it.

After discussing this with, and having it confirmed by, my midwife, we ultimately decided to sweep this to the side and continue on with our plan as if it hadn’t happened. Time would tell if Dr. Malenfant was right or wrong - but for the moment, we weren’t obligated to listen to him. Thankfully.

What’s important to note is the hierarchy of the system here. While midwives are a part of the public health system, they have very limited jurisdiction and the medical doctors nearly always get the last word. So, even though I could elect to have a midwife for my VBAC, it was only under very specific circumstances, and if anything went outside of those circumstances, I would be transferred to hospital care and be at the mercy of whichever ob/gyn was on duty that day. (Which is what happened last time.)

But as it turned out, we didn’t have to wait for 41 weeks. Or even 40 weeks. My water broke at 5 a.m. on the Wednesday of Week 39.

It wasn’t anything like the movies - no gushing of buckets of liquid - but rather a slow trickle that lasted most of the day. I didn’t have any contractions, though. So, this started a clock ticking.

I called my midwife, Maryse, who told me that I’d need to be in active labor within the next 24 hours. When the water breaks, an essential protection for the baby is lost, so mama and baby are at risk for infection. She said to give it until the afternoon to see if the contractions would start on their own. If not, we’d discuss our options that evening. She suggested I stay moving as much as possible - take a walk, bounce on a yoga ball - and I did! I even did some yoga. But, no results. The afternoon came and went, no signs of labor.

Maryse came by the house just before dinner to perform “membrane stripping” - a truly uncomfortable labor-stimulation procedure which involves manually detaching the baby’s amniotic sac from the uterine walls, resulting in a release of the contraction-inducing hormone, oxytocin. THIS IS VERY UNPLEASANT. Afterward, we agreed to take the time to finish our evening routines and meet back up at the birthing centre around 8 p.m., bags in tow. This baby was going to be born in the next 12-24 hours.

In a way, this made preparations a bit easier to organize. Knowing the baby was coming, but not being under stress of active labor, allowed us to pack our bags thoughtfully and not unnecessarily early. (I was hesitating to finish my birth bag because so many of the things you’re supposed to bring are things you use everyday - toothbrush and other toiletries, clothes). It also gave us time to make a better plan for who would care for Benji. We’d been throwing around some options, but nothing was set in stone because we had no way of knowing what time of day, or which day, any one of our options would be available. But this way, we had time to call a dear friend who lives 2 hours away, to come and stay with Benji. It was so ideal for Benji to be able to be in his own environment throughout this process.

After putting Benji to bed, we arrived at the birthing centre around 8 p.m. Wednesday and got settled into our room. This was so much a part of the “lost dream” from Benji’s birth story - to deliver at the birthing centre. It’s such a different atmosphere from the hospital - it’s warm and friendly, and calm. There’s a big tub in each room, and twinkle lights and dimmers, and a big bed - not a “hospital bed,” but a real bed. There are big windows that overlook the woods. I was never interested in giving birth at home - the idea of that big mess being in our living space was unappealing to me - but this was the best alternative to the grim “fluorescentness” of the hospital, where there never seem to be less than four extra people you don’t know in the room at any given time. I was SO happy to be finally getting my wish!

At this point, it had been over two hours since the membrane stripping and I was still waiting for effects of that to kick in. The midwife hooked me up to an electric breast pump - another common natural labor-inducer - and I would alter half-hour sessions with that and moving around, doing squats and walking. I began to feel what resembled period cramps - which are basically early contractions - and knew things were starting. Finally, around 10 p.m., I got the first truly debilitating contraction - the kind where you bowl over and can’t talk - and we were on our way.

For the rest of that night and into the wee hours of Thursday morning, I experienced contractions of varying lengths, intervals, and intensity, which meant that, while yes, I was technically “laboring”, I still wasn’t in “active labor” - where the contractions are consistently spaced and of equal duration. But the intensity was definitely there. It. was. hell. Things were moving along in terms of dilation, but not very quickly. I spent the whole night in immense pain - in and out of the hot bathtub, and demanding poor Mat push on my lower back with the force of a Mack Truck to get me through each contraction. (He had some hand/wrist soreness the next day!) Mat was an amazing partner, preparing several baths for me, letting me squeeze the blood out of his hands, and just generally being the perfect support system. But by 6:30 a.m., things seemed to have stalled. Maryse asked what I wanted to do.

It had now been more than 24 hours since my water broke. She said we could wait a little longer - another few hours - and see if things started to pick up. Or, we could start thinking about a hospital transfer, since the risk of infection would only continue to increase. We weren’t to the point of emergency yet, but she suggested it was a good idea to start thinking about the options.

As soon as she said that things weren’t progressing as much as she would like, even after all those hours of immense pain, I felt incredibly discouraged and my willpower completely deflated. All this torture for nothing?? Nooooo! The idea of continuing for more hours, not knowing if it would be for naught, did not sounds appealing.

Since I was simply hell-bent on avoiding an emergency c-section, I hadn’t actually considered a hospital transfer in the event of a non-emergency. An elective hospital transfer, hmm. But after nearly 10 hours of the Worst Pain Known to Woman, the word “hospital” pinged one thing into my mind - PAIN RELIEF - and all the sudden I had tunnel vision. Make. It. Stop.

Because it was my choice, and because I had been able to at least experience a bit of the process at the birth centre, I didn’t feel cheated. I was still in control - I could still choose to stay at the birth centre, at least at that point. And so it all had a completely different tune than the last time.

Then Maryse drops this bomb: the attending ob/gyn until 8 a.m. was… Dr. Malenfant. She said it had been bugging her ever since I called her the previous morning about my water breaking - his 24-hour shift had been looming over us the whole time. At that point, it was 6:30 a.m. The question was, now that I had made the decision to be transferred and felt a rush of relief by just the idea of the epidural, could we stall long enough to get there AFTER 8 a.m.? In my state of pain, part of me actually didn’t even care it was him. (That should tell you how much pain!) I just wanted it to stop. But there was a part of me that was super angry and certain I did not want to hear anything out of his mouth resembling, “I told you so.” We decided that, with the time it would take for her to fill out the paperwork for the transfer, call the ambulance, wait for it to arrive, and then get to the hospital, we would probably be there very close to 8 a.m., and anyway, he would leave at the end of his shift whether he saw to our arrival or not.

Since it wasn’t an emergency transfer, the ambulance traveled with traffic. It took 4̶0̶0̶ ̶h̶o̶u̶r̶s̶ 20 minutes to get to the hospital and we arrived at 7:53 a.m. (there was a big clock in the ambulance and not much else to look at). Mat trailed behind us in the car with our bags. Thinking back, I’m not sure why we all didn’t just go in our car actually… I wasn’t hooked up to anything while in the ambulance… it was just a bumpy taxi ride and I had to wear a mask, which sucks when you are trying to BREATHE through LABOR.

They trolleyed me on a stretcher to the obstetrics wing where it seemed like a super chill Thursday morning - lots of personnel hanging out, chatting. As a university hospital, its teeming with interns and residents. Despite my having been the ONLY patient that morning, there was still a mix-up with the transfer paperwork (they’d received it but no one had looked at it, so no one was prepared for my arrival) which seemed to make everything go in slow motion to me, the woman in immense pain who could think of nothing but the angelic face of the anesthesiologist.

As I was being tended to by what seemed like a hundred people (but was really like two nurses and a resident), Maryse stood quietly by. Because I’d been transferred, she wasn’t allowed to do anything other than provide moral support, but she had promised to stick with us as long as possible. I was so, so grateful that she did. It meant so much to have her there, not only because she knew our case and could help provide background and advocacy, but because she was a familiar face in the sea of strangers that drifted in and out of the room.

The nurse got me all hooked up as the clock was literally sounding 8 a.m…. and Dr. Malenfant sauntered in. One thing for sure is that when you are in labor, you are on another planet. You are not you, but some primal version of yourself, whittled down to the essential instincts of survival with little remainder of the “extras", like, social graces, tact, politeness, etc. When he came in, I yelled, “He needs to leave. That man needs to leave!!!” and gesticulated toward the door. I am not kidding. Though I didn’t look him in the eye, I knew he wasn’t looking at me either - he was looking at Maryse. And you know what he said to her? He said, “I told you so, Maryse.” HE ACTUALLY SAID IT. Maryse, who kept her face relatively stoic, chose to ignore him completely while I continued to scream for his prompt exit. He left, without a word to me, as Mat was walking in. His shift was over, after all, and the next was setting up. Mat had missed the little showdown, but said he knew who it was immediately. And that was the last we saw of him. I still can’t believe that an adult, a professional, would steep so, so low as to have treated Maryse - a colleague! - and me, for that matter, in such a condescending and disrespectful way. I’m trying not to judge all ob/gyn’s by his example, but it does take some effort.

Finally, the sweet baby angel face of the anesthesiologist appeared - we had probably been at the hospital for about 20 minutes or so - and proceeded to ask me a bunch of questions instead of injecting me immediately with magic relief potion. Then she disappeared again, for who knows how long - it felt like 15 years but was probably 10 minutes - and came back prepared to administer the drugs. But, not before going through a very long list of potential-but-unlikely side effects of spinal anesthetics to which I had to give verbal consent. Then, FINALLY, she hooked me up and it was about 5-10 minutes before I could relax, and breathe, and think.

The attending doctor who relieved Dr. Malenfant turned out to be kind of delightful. For the first time in this hospital, I had not one, but two doctors offer to speak to me in English, without my prompting. The lead doctor and her resident, who spoke pretty fluently, were both a major improvement from the previous doctors I’d met there, including the one who had performed my c-section. They were kind, they listened to me, and what’s more, they not only “tolerated” Maryse’s presence, but actually appreciated it. Maryse told me later that the lead doctor chased her down the hallway as she was leaving to give her a HUG and to thank her for staying, and that she sees a world of difference in the patient experience, and the outcomes, when the midwife stays. That really warmed my mama heart!

But the medical team was still bound by hospital code, or the rules, or whatever, which said that if progress isn’t at this point by this time, then interventions come whether you want them or not. I labored under the epidural and high doses of the labor-inducing drug for several hours, and each time the docs checked the progress, it was enough to continue a little longer. I was always so encouraged by this, since I’d grown almost used to being told that things weren’t moving along. At 1 p.m., she came in to tell me to rest up, take a nap even, because at 2 p.m. it would be time to push.

I couldn’t really nap, I was too hyped-up on adrenaline! But in what was an excellent sign of the doctor’s confidence that a c-section would not be necessary, they allowed me to eat a little bit! Just being “allowed” to eat gave me strength, knowing that with each minute, the ship was veering slowly, but surely, AWAY from surgery (if they have any doubt that surgery is coming, they don’t let you eat). I wasn’t all that hungry, but some fruit and juice did the trick. I was ready to push.

The doc gave me an hour to push - she actually said, “This baby needs to be born at 3 p.m.” The main reason being, it was well past the 24 hours since my water had broken, and I had started running a slight fever, which had prompted them to administer antibiotics. However, I was 100% dilated and the baby had descended enough that we were pretty much out of the woods for a c-section. Even still, other tools of intervention were literally waiting at the door: namely, vacuum and forceps. Needless to say, that gave me some added encouragement to beat the clock.

What I appreciated about the pushing process was feeling “active” against the contractions, rather than having to just endure them. Pushing through the pain was like combatting it, in a way, and made the contractions somehow less painful. Though I was never sure if it was working - I didn’t feel anything coming down - all I had to go on was the very expressive choir yelling, “Push! Go! Yes! More! More! More!” (It was actually more like: “Oui, Shannon, c’est ça! Allez allez allez!” but, you get it). There were at least five, if not more, people around at any given time during this process, and to be honest, the loud encouragement was actually welcome. (Despite not loving the fact that my entire undercarriage was on display to a peanut gallery of strangers). The more they seemed to get excited, the more it felt like something was happening, which encouraged me to push harder.

And boy, did I push hard. So hard, in fact, that I came out of this with broken capillaries in my face and neck, several hemorrhoids - one of which I’d had before and pushed to the size of what felt like an apple, plus a couple of newbies - and third-degree perineal tearing. But IT WAS SO WORTH IT. I will take all that in place of major abdominal surgery any day.

I pushed for about 50 minutes and was feeling like nothing was happening. When the doc said, “This baby has to be born in 10 minutes,” there was an unspoken, “Or else,” attached to it - a warning that intervention was on its way. I went into Super Determined Mode. They had attached a bar to the bed from which I could do a kind of “hanging squat” position, and huffed and puffed, and finally at like 2:58 p.m. I was told to reach down and I would be able to feel the head! OH MY GOSH THAT IS AN INSANE FEELING. And I had so much hope then, and knew, that I could do this. I would make that deadline. At that point, I was in between contractions and it seemed everyone but Maryse turned their backs, busy with some kind of preparation, and I felt compelled to push a little more, even without a contraction. Maryse had to yell out that he was coming NOW, and boom, everyone turned back around in time for Mat to be able to catch him as he came out.

It was truly amazing to watch him find the breast all on his own.

The next minutes were a blur - Mat placed the baby on top of me - this slippery, fragile being who could barely open his eyes. He wasn’t even crying very much, which seemed worrying, especially after the big yelling that Benji got up to immediately at birth. This baby was just so… chill. But we were assured that all his vital signs were normal and that he was in great shape.

In the next hour, I watched him find my breast all on his own and start his first feed. Human nature is so amazing! These moments were ever more precious this time around, having missed them with Benji. I was so high on endorphins and adrenaline and the sheer happiness of having achieved this, that I blurted out to the entire room of doctors and nurses: “FUCK YOU, DR. MALENFANT!”

The room laughed, perhaps a bit nervously, and I heard someone say, “We didn’t hear that!” and “My residents, you did not hear that!” But I got the feeling it was shocking to no one. Maryse later told me that she happily regaled the midwife staff with this tidbit, and it has become legend. Which I have to say makes me immensely proud.

The room became quiet after the nurse finished tidying up and unhooking me. We gave Maryse a huge hug for having seen us through it all, and sent her off to sleep.

It was very toasty in our room - we were kind of sweating. Also, this baby is narcoleptic.

We ended up spending two nights in the hospital - one extra than a standard stay for an uneventful natural birth - because of the fever I had run during labor. There was a chance that an infection had developed as a result of my water breaking so soon before delivery, and they wanted to watch Léo for signs that he had contracted anything. But all ended up just fine, and we were released Saturday morning.

It was such a freeing feeling to be able to walk normally out of the hospital! No post-surgery pain. No 6-8 weeks of recovery ahead of me. And honestly the tearing and the stitches didn’t bother me at all; it was mostly my butt that hurt from all the pushing/straining. It was a completely different experience, and I’m so pleased with it.

It’s odd to feel SO accomplished by having done something your body is designed to do. But when you have various medical professionals discouraging you from doing something - or lecturing you that you shouldn’t even try - it takes a lot of energy to organize yourself to push back against that and follow your instincts. And it’s immensely rewarding to succeed at it in the end, especially when you had a doctor literally - and prematurely - say, “I told you so”.

all the kisses and cuddles.

So now I’ve seen both sides of birthing a baby - a c-section and a natural birth. A disappointing story and a happy one. But of course, what I’m most grateful for is my two happy, healthy boys, no matter which way they came out.

But also, Fuck You, Dr. Malenfant. :)