Pregnancy and birth were both everything and nothing like I expected.

Overall, I was blessed with a wonderful pregnancy. The most difficult part was the last month. On top of my growing impatience, I had also regressed to first-trimester levels of fatigue. I was swollen and well over the weight I had “allowed” myself to gain. It was uncomfortable to lie, sit, and stand.

I was eager for labor to begin. I was doing all the things- taking tinctures, drinking raspberry leaf tea, stretching, and curb walking. I even listened to positive birth affirmations each night as I fell asleep.

But the days kept passing.

It wasn’t until three days past my due date that consistent contractions started.

My husband called our midwife and set up the blow-up tub for my water birth. I was ecstatic. It was finally time to meet our child. I had no fear, no hesitation. I believed I was ready for the pain I would endure and excited for the release of hormones I’d get as baby came into the world.

But the beautiful home birth I planned for gradually turned into an extensive, exhausting, and agonizing experience.

I had always sworn I’d never give birth in a hospital and considered getting an epidural cheating. But these hopeful (and judgmental) ideals were crushed as I neared the 20-hour mark of labor.

Contractions had gotten so intense and close together that I could find no rest between. I was stuck on my knees, my upper body on the edge of the bed. Even this position was excruciating, but anything else somehow felt worse. I couldn’t even use the toilet; the pain was unbearable. I was forced to relieve myself on the absorbent blue pads the midwife had placed under me. I felt like a disgusting wild animal.

Over 34 hours I had very slowly dilated from three centimeters to eight.

By this point I had lost my will to endure, but I had no choice. The contractions kept coming. My back ached, my knees raw. I begged God to let this be over- for the pain to subside, for my baby to miraculously make his appearance. I prayed and was angry at his supposed unresponsiveness.

Hours earlier, it seemed as if my water broke but my midwife who wasn’t yet present for that now questioned if it perhaps was something else. And so, she suggested another cervical check. Getting into and maintaining the lying back position was literally the worst pain I’ve ever felt. But she said it was the only way to see how things were progressing- I have never cried as loudly as I did at this.

There was still a fluid sac and so she suggested we break it so that the final bit of dilation could progress quicker. When the sac was broken dark, brown liquid gushed out.

Meconium.

The midwife said this could mean baby was in distress and she recommended we transfer to the hospital quickly.

A wave of thankfulness washed over me, I thought of the relief an epidural would provide and how soon my baby could possibly be in my arms.

My mother-in-law packed a bag for my husband and I, and we drove to the hospital. This was another highly unpleasant experience at eight centimeters dilated.

I waddled inch by inch into the hospital where they provided a wheelchair for me. I rode the elevator up and was whisked into a room where they had me remove my cherry Coca-Cola t-shirt and replace it with a stiff gown. Before even fifteen minutes had passed the anesthesiologist arrived with the epidural.

The only shame I felt was in my own hypocrisy.

I was shocked by how pleasant the hospital staff was. After being hooked up to an IV, a catheter, and some other things I can’t remember I slept for the first time in two days.

When I woke up the hospital’s midwife came in to discuss our next steps. Really, my only option was a cesarean.

I will spare you the details of why.

I felt a few moments of fear and frustration. But that feeling quickly slipped away as I was still physically and mentally exhausted from labor. In all honesty I was happy to not have to push or exert anymore effort.

Though it was not yet an emergency, the staff did want to get me prepped soon while everyone was available. Scott stepped out of the room, needing to process all that had happened and facing yet another unpleasant circumstance.

Cesareans come with a long list of potential risks, and this was nothing either of us had even considered as a possibility.

I had a strange sense of peace. Looking back, I realize this was the gift God had provided for me. When I felt like he wasn’t responding to my prayer, he was giving me something greater than a way out.

Peace. And an opportunity to rely on his strength instead of my own.

I was actually, finally, going to meet my baby!

Scott put on the white protective suit the staff provided, and I pulled my hair into a bun and slapped a blue hair net over it. I had intended to give birth looking somewhat put together, with some lip gloss and a pair of earrings. Now I could not care less how I looked.

Within thirty minutes of making my decision to go ahead with the surgery, I was wheeled down the hallway with Scott following just behind. He was asked to wait in a separate room as they prepped me.

The overlapping talk and numerous pairs of hands working initially made me nervous, but I realized their nonchalant demeaner and efficiency were good signs. They were confident and practiced.

They brought Scott in just before making the first incision. Something I never knew is that you feel everything except for the paper cut feeling of the scalpel.

I couldn’t describe a contraction to you- but this sensation I will never forget.

The odd pulling, like a rubber band being stretched almost too far. Feeling them rummage through my insides like I was a purse.

In less than ten minutes, I felt a hand reach deep inside me. Then I heard it.

The cries. Desperate and loud.

In a haze still, I was unsure of what to think or do when they pulled down the opaque half of the plastic divider and held up my baby.

I hesitated, then gently poked him through the clear plastic.

My body began to shake uncontrollably and nausea rose within me.

As they took my baby just a few feet away, I found myself thinking, “If I was to die, now would be an ideal moment.” Knowing my baby was safe with his dad and that I (in a way) had fulfilled my duty of bringing my son into this world.

I did not have immediate skin-to-skin with baby, nor did I hold him for the first few hours of his arrival. I was so out of it, I was afraid I would drop him.

Though this was different (again) than what I had planned, I was happy. I know this was extremely special for Scott, getting to be the first to hold his son, having time to bond.

We spent the next couple days in the hospital, in awe of this little life that was now our responsiblity.

It was difficult for me to move, but with the help of the rotation of nurses and my husband I was able to get out of bed, use the bathroom, move around, and even shower once. Though I was highly uncomfortable I did not experience as much pain as I expected.

I survived the first couple weeks with small doses of ibuprofen, and have only taken it once every few days when I’ve done something too strenuous.

Those first couple weeks were heavy emotionally. I finally had time to process the entirety of my birth experience- could I even call it birth?

Though I labored, my baby did not emerge in the typical way. Another question- what is typical?

I have heard several stories from women who have had similar, unexpected experiences. A sort of shredding and shedding of dreams and hopes for something… different.

It eased my mind, as I struggled with this new uncertainty of how to balance grief and gratitude.

I can be endlessly grateful that my baby is here, healthy and safe, while still acknowledging that his arrival was not what I had imagined.

As time has passed, I don’t find myself as critical of the circumstances of my son’s arrival. Instead, I find I have far more compassion for women and mothers as a whole.

These are the highlights of what motherhood has taught me thus far:

Two things can be true at the same time. I can be happy and disappointed. I can love the outcome while still mourning the experience.

Clinging to control only adds extra pain. Surrender doesn’t mean giving up, but allowing peace to override your plans and expectations.

And grace is necessary. Not just for ourselves but also for others.

My black and white view of the world and motherhood was dismantled. Thank God.