The thing about being induced is that you have too much time to think things through—and yet, when it comes to labor, delivery, and birthin’ babies, there are never any guarantees.
For your convenience, I have categorized the whole experience.
Being induced was good for me, because I hadn’t slept for about a month and was several days overdue at that point. An earthier mother would have been more patient. I was more like, “Bring it on.”
Plus I basically had the whole wing to myself.
We picked a very good night to birth our baby.
My nurses were named Gina and Jessica. They were lovely young women—warm & friendly & mothers themselves—and we spent two very pleasant hours during the “calm before the storm.”
And then, my friends, the pitocin kicked in.
Being induced was also bad for me, because I went from 4 centimeters to 10 in roughly 30 minutes. Big, BIG ouch, no doubt about it. I felt like the temple veil was being torn in two. There was no time for that peaceful water birth—no time for anything other than squatting in agony at the side of the bed.
The contractions crashed over me, one after another. “Get me an epidural!” I gasped in between them, and my husband fled to get a nurse.
In the end, there was no time. I signed the paperwork, in between groans, but my body had other plans for us. The side of that bed was where I needed to be and my husband would later remark that it looked like I was doing “The Twist” down there, because with every contraction my body would rotate and sway. (How prudent of him to wait until later to say this!) My doctor burst into the room at that point and looked a little startled to find me squatting there—twisting the night away, as it were—but she quickly recovered and started to get things ready.
And then my water burst all over the floor.
“I need to push!” I gasped.
“That’s good!” she responded. “I just need you to get in the bed, okay?”
I didn’t budge. I couldn’t budge. It was all just way too much.
“Margaret, honey?” my doctor persisted. “I need you to get into the bed for me.”
Uh-huh. Sorry. No can do.
At that point, my husband intervened. “Get in the bed, Maggie,” he directed, and grasping my elbow gently but firmly, my husband did what he does best. He made it happen. (Gotta love those Type-A lawyers.)
Two pushes later, our son was born. My legs were shaking from exertion but he was here—in my arms and without the epidural, which—at the very least—would save us a few bucks later on.
Best of all, he was healthy and hearty and did I mention? In my arms!
Our baby boy Nicholas was here.
He was here.