The Birth Story

I love reading other people's birth stories, so I thought it was high time I shared my own. Here is the story of our little boy's birth, written in the early morning hours the day after he was born.

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September 29, 2012

Some women love being pregnant. I am not one of those women. For me first trimester was all nausea and fatigue. The second trimester wasn't too bad, but it was soon followed by the third trimester. Heartburn. Fatigue. Baby kicking too much for me to sleep at night. Growing out of all but one pair of yoga pants. Minor contractions every day, starting mid-afternoon and continuing on until midnight. 

(me at 39 weeks pregnant - smiling on the outside but not on the inside!)

(and ugh - please ignore the carpet full of cat hair...)

Then, before I knew it, I was 40 weeks pregnant. Then 41 weeks pregnant, with an induction date set for the following week. It seemed like a cruel joke that I got to be pregnant even longer than expected. 40 weeks was one thing, but 41, really? Rapidly approaching 42?

I was waddling, grouchy, and totally over being pregnant. I couldn't remember why this had ever seemed like a good idea. It sounds funny now, but by then I had stopped completely believing that there would actually be a baby at the end of all this pregnancy nonsense.

The whole thing was getting old, and I was rapidly approaching pregnancy despair. I had been a good little soldier until week 37, but then the regular meltdowns began. I didn't know pregnancy got so cumbersome at the end, and I was really sick of the whole thing.


On Thursday night, September 27, I was overdue by one week and two days. I crawled into bed feeling the same contractions I'd been having since I was 38 weeks along. It was about midnight.

I crawled in next to Daryl and had another little meltdown. I think I said something along the lines of, “I can’t believe I’m still pregnant! This is never going to end!” I cried into his chest, he prayed over me, and I grumpily snuggled under the covers for what I assumed was yet another long night of pregnancy.

While falling asleep, we played an episode of The West Wing on my computer to try to distract me enough from the middling contractions to fall asleep. (It was Season Six’s “Freedonia,” for any of you West Wingophiles out there.) Watching The West Wing in bed became a nightly tradition for us in this final month. Daryl usually nodded off during the first few minutes, but I’d finish an episode or two while waiting for my contractions to settle.

Midway through the episode I started feeling stronger contractions. Daryl was sound asleep, and these had happened before, so I didn’t get excited. I went to the bathroom to see if that would help – it didn’t. I tried to lie back in bed and relax, but quickly realized that lying down wasn't going to happen. 

By the end of the episode, I was kneeling beside our bed, rocking back and forth. These contractions were starting to feel quite different than the ones I’d had before. They also seemed to be coming very close together.

I have a contraction timer app on my phone, so I pulled it up to see if they were as close as they felt. Ten minutes into the timing I was lying on the floor trying not to moan in pain. If the app’s calculations were correct, I was contracting for over a minute every two-and-a-half minutes. Eep!

Everything I read said that first-time moms tend to have long labors. As in, 24-hours or longer. Daryl and I had crafted a birth plan that started at home with our doula. Maybe I'd walk the stairs, we thought. Maybe I'd relax in the bathtub or use the exercise ball. We planned to watch our wedding video while cuddling on the couch. We planned to eat something to help me keep my strength up during the long hours to come. 

On top of that, at an earlier appointment our midwife reminded us to drive to the hospital when my contractions were 3-4 minutes apart. According to my calculations, we were already under that wire. I wasn't sure what to think, but I already suspected that our birth plan was out the window.

The pain had begun to ramp up and the contractions were coming fast, so I woke Daryl up around 1:00am.

“Sweetie,” I called out from the floor beside the bed. Nothing. He was dead to the world.

“Sweetie!” I called out more urgently. Again, nothing.

“DARYL!” I yelled.

“Huh? What?” his head popped up from his pillow.

“I think this is it.”

There was a scuffle as he untangled himself from the sheets.

“Okay. Good. Good.” He rubbed the sleep from his eyes. “Okay. Okay." This seemed to be his go-to expression as he gathered himself. He was disoriented but trying hard to rally. "Okay. How are you doing?” 

“Fine," I said, "but I must be timing my contractions wrong because they cannot be this close together. Will you time them?”

For the next ten minutes he timed while I tried to find a comfortable position on the floor. By now I couldn’t keep quiet, so I tried to find a sound that helped manage the pain. Yelling didn’t. Screaming just scared our poor cats. I settled on talking to our baby (great advice from my friend Stephanie) and saying, “Okay. Okay, baby,” over and over again while rocking back and forth on all fours. It didn’t make the pain go away, and I'm sure it looked ridiculous, but it did help some.

Daryl spoke to me softly and gently between contractions. I don't know how he did it, but he never showed more than a trace of stress or fear, though I'm sure he felt more than a little bit of both.

“Your contractions are two minutes and fifteen seconds apart,” he said, calmly. “You were timing them right. I’m going to go and get dressed.”

“Call Anna!” I called after him as he headed to his closet (our house is super old, so it has tiny closets and he uses the closet in another room). “Tell her to come here!” Anna was our doula.

I heard him speaking to her as I worked through another contraction, this one noticeably stronger than the one before. By the time Daryl hung up with Anna I had changed my mind about spending the beginning of active labor at home.

“Changed my mind!” I said. “Call the hospital! We need to go there instead!”

From the other room I could hear Daryl on the phone with a Labor and Delivery nurse. “Her contractions are about two and a half minutes apart,” he said. “We’re coming in. Is the tub room available?”

I wouldn’t have remembered to ask for it (I was kinda focused!), but Daryl reserving this room for us turned out to be one of the most pivotal moments in our birth story. The only birthing room at our hospital that had a tub for laboring was indeed available, and the nurse said she'd save it for us.

(THE best place to get ready to have a baby. Seriously.)

Daryl came back in to check on me, and through the contraction-induced haze, I noticed his shoes. They were a really old pair I hadn't seen him wear in years and years. I don't even know where he found them. It was one of the only tiny signs of stress he showed. (Those of you who know Daryl well know that he is a bit picky about his shoes!)

I changed out of my pajamas and got myself together. The car seat and hospital bag were already in the car, so we just had to get ourselves ready. I really wanted to wear earrings for some reason, and I made Daryl dig out one that had fallen behind our bed so I could put it on. He (wisely and graciously) did not mention to me how weird a request that seemed.

("Daryl!" (pant, pant, pant) "Ohhhh-kay, baby. Okay. Okay, baby. Ohhhh-kay. I need my earring!" (pant, pant, pant) "It's behind the bed! Okay, baby. Ohhhhhh-kay. Okay, baby.")

Needless to say, it took awhile for us get to the car. I stopped and leaned in doorframes to manage the contractions, and Daryl hunted down his car keys. He's a chronic key-loser, and this was the only moment in labor when I was truly annoyed with him.

"Really?" I remember thinking. "You're going to do a full house search for your keys tonight? Good timing, mister!"

I climbed into the car's backseat and quickly realized—and said—“Wow, this is going to suck.” There was no way to really get onto all fours, which was the only position that helped with the pain, so I perched backwards and grabbed the headrest for leverage. 

The 35-minute drive to the hospital was very vivid. I noticed the almost-full moon shining on the farmland. I noticed the beautiful clarity of the late night air. I noticed that we were the only car on the highway for most of the ride. I also began to notice that some of my contractions had double peaks—after every five or six contractions two would come one right on top of the other without a break.

"That is SO not fair!" I said.

"You're doing great!" cheered Daryl.

We pulled into the emergency room parking lot. As I got out of the car between contractions, I announced to Daryl, “I’m not riding in a wheelchair and I don’t want to wear a hospital gown.” Both of these things were really important to me in the moment.

“Great!” he said. “We’ll make it happen!”

In the parking lot we met Anna and her sister Beka. I didn't even recognize them; I was already so far into Labor Land. I remember thinking, "Why are those two girls staring at us and smiling?" I paused once for a contraction, wrapping my arms around Daryl. He swayed with me as I stood in the chilly air with my face pressed into his navy blue Duke sweatshirt.

“That sure sounds like active labor!” Anna said, with a huge grin. I was certainly hoping that it was – if this was not active labor there was no way I’d survive the real thing!

We had preregistered at the hospital, so they didn’t need to ask many questions. Sitting down in the admissions office wasn't an option because of the discomfort it would cause, so instead I stood and leaned over onto the desk and vocalized whenever a contraction hit. I pretty much yelled in the intake nurse's face whenever a contraction hit. She was very patient and understanding, poor woman.

(No wheelchair for me!)

(Hurry up, elevator!)

We made it up to the third floor's Labor and Delivery wing and were ushered into the tub room where someone (I later learned that it was Daryl, bless him) immediately dimmed all the bright lights.

The nurse hooked me up to a monitor, but let me to stay on the bed on all fours, which helped with the pain. When I got into position, Anna immediately pushed some pressure points on my back, giving me instant relief, and I turned to Daryl and said, “Whatever we are paying her, it is not enough.” From that first moment, Anna’s massages and Anna and Daryl's presence and support helped lessen my pain tremendously.

I had to lie down on my back for just a brief moment so that our nurse could check my progress. She checked me (which didn’t hurt at all—surprising, since other women had told me that was one of the worst parts) and happily announced, “You’re at four centimeters!”

I was overjoyed. True labor had started! This was it! Only six centimeters more to go!

(This is what overjoyed looks like when you're in labor. Trust me.)

Daryl asked the nurse to set up the tub, and within ten minutes it was filled and ready.

The tub. Was. Heaven. I turned over on all fours and let the water hold my belly. Daryl donned his basketball shorts (I'd packed his swim trunks, but he couldn't find them) and put his legs in the tub so he could rub my shoulders. Anna stroked my hair and held pressure points on my back.

Daryl turned on my birth playlist, a mixture of bluegrass (Jake Armerding and Nickel Creek) and Christmas music (Phil Wickham, Casting Crowns, and Fernando Ortega). It was perfect. During breaks from the contractions I distracted myself by listening to the songs, many of which were about the birth of a very special baby. I remember hearing O Holy Night and thinking, “Yeah. It is isn’t it?”

The contractions came faster and stronger now. Often I didn’t get a break as one came right on top of the last. Occasionally they would peak three times (NOT fun!) after which I’d get a two or three minute break--an incredibly needed rest. During one of those breaks I remember thinking, “This is really pleasant! I’m in a hot tub being massaged by two people. This isn't bad at all!” Then another double-peaking contraction hit, and I changed my mind.

In the months leading up to labor, I had worried that I wouldn’t be able to relax between contractions. I can get really stuck in my head, and that's where pain lives. I was really surprised that through most of my labor I was able to truly let go of the pain between each one. I listened to the music, felt the massage, breathed deeply, and let them go.

I kept my eyes closed for most of the time, and any time I felt myself tightening up either Anna or Daryl would remind me to vocalize in low tones, to let go, or that I was doing great. Anna continually offered me sips of water, and we soon developed a sort of shorthand. I'd lift my head and she'd put a straw right in my mouth. That cold water was heavenly.

About an hour in I couldn’t vocalize with words anymore. I just started groaning. In the months leading up to our son's birth, I swore I wouldn't make any of those loud, intense woman-in-labor sounds, but I learned quickly that I didn't have a choice! Every time I tried to stay quiet the pain got worse, so I let myself make whatever noises I needed to, despite the occasional thought, "I'm sure I'm freaking out anyone within a mile of this room!"

The tub eventually cooled, so I moved to the shower. The shower took a long, long time to heat up, and I ended up standing in the bathroom, dripping wet, and freezing cold, waiting for it to get hot. This was the moment the nurse chose to let us know:

"Oh, the shower does take about five minutes to get warm!" 

Yeah. Would have been nice to know that earlier...

(Our wonderful doula, Anna, not caring that she is standing in a huge puddle of tub water.)

I started trembling violently with cold, so Anna grabbed a blanket from the hospital bed, wrapped me up, and hugged me through a really strong contraction. I held onto her for dear life, until I could step into the shower. We later learned that this is when I was starting transition.

In the shower things got serious. I sat on the chair with Daryl standing next to me for support, and I suddenly started feeling unable to manage the pain well at all. I vocalized, I banged on the handrails, I curled into Daryl, but nothing helped take the edge off. Daryl asked for the tub to be refilled, and when it was, I immediately climbed back in.

The tub brought some relief, but the contractions were pretty brutal now. Daryl climbed all the way in the tub with me so I could hold onto him for support. This was the part I had feared—after all the good work I’d done, I didn’t feel like I could go on any longer. I got really frightened and emotional as contraction after contraction came with only thirty seconds in between.

I couldn’t tolerate being on all fours in the tub anymore. I couldn’t tolerate sitting up or kneeling in the tub, either. Nothing helped. I started thrashing around in the water, trying to escape the pain. I was completely lost in it. It’s all still a bit foggy, but I remember uttering all of the following things to Daryl at that point:

“I want to go home. This is a bad place. We need to go home.” (Props to him for not laughing during this one!)

“I can’t do this. No, you don't understand. I really can't.”

“It is too much! I just need a break! I just need a little break and I can’t get one!”

“This huuuuurts. It really huuuurts.” (Not my proudest moment!)

And then, finally, I began a litany of the following: “I need some help! It hurts too much. I can’t do it. Get me something to help.” (Repeated ad nauseum).

He and Anna gently tried to dissuade me from using medication (as per my earlier requests in our labor prep) but here I became quite high-and-mighty. Daryl is a guy, after all, and Anna hasn't had a baby herself, so how could they possibly know? I became convinced that nobody in the room understood what I was going through, and I demanded something to take the edge off of the pain.

“You don’t know!" I said, firmly. "I can’t do this. I need something. Get me something.”

An epidural was out of the question because there was no way I could hold still. If I had to lie still in the bed, I thought I would die. The pain was brutal.

Daryl slipped out of the tub and asked our nurse what I could be given. I heard a quiet conversation about IV meds, and then our nurse’s gentle voice.

“Courtney,” she said. “We can talk about pain medication, but can I check you first?”

“Okay,” I said. “If you can do it in the tub.” Bless that nurse who stuck her whole arm into the water instead of making me get out of the tub. As she checked, I knew if I heard the words “five” or “six” or even “seven” I would continue to beg for meds. Any meds. Horse tranquilizers, if they had them. If transition would be worse than this, I would never make it.

But then the miraculous words came.

“Courtney,” she said, “You are nine. I’m going to call Dr. Kate.” There was a bit of fear in her voice, and I later learned that Dr. Kate had told our nurse to call her when I was at six. I had progressed so fast, she had missed the critical window. The nurse quickly left the room to call our midwife.

(Dilation chart. I try not to even think about it.)

Daryl and Anna both rejoiced at the news that I was nearly ready to push. “You are almost there!” they cheered with glee.

I was both thrilled and overwhelmed. I had a short moment of jubilation--I had done it! Naturally! I was near the end, and we had almost made it! 

But then I had a moment of utter terror. If I was at nine centimeters, there probably wasn’t time to get any medication. And I was going to die. Didn’t anyone care about that?

(This may sound overdramatic, but in the moment it's totally how I felt. I've since heard from other women with short labors that they felt similarly. A short labor is so intense and powerful and everything happens so fast that it feels totally out of control. Especially for a first-time mom, this can be terrifying and actually make her feel like she might not make it out alive. This is how I felt. Luckily (?) the pain was so bad that death didn't seem like as scary an option as it would in normal life.)

As I began to panic, Daryl leaned over and gently whispered in my ear. “You can do this, love. You are doing it. It won't be much longer. Find a way through.”

I gritted my teeth. I had to find a way through. During the contractions I screamed. I yelled. I hollered “Why? Why? Why?” But during the short breaks in between, I started to pray. I was at my end; I didn't have anyone else to turn to for help, so I went to Jesus. I didn’t have many words, but I found a mantra.

“Please, Jesus. Please, please Jesus. Help me, Jesus.” I was way past caring how I might sound to everyone else in the room. I needed help, so I asked for it. I heard Daryl whispering prayers over me. I knew Anna was praying, too. The pain didn't lessen, but the panic did. With God's help, I began to find a way through.

Our nurse soon came back into the room. “Dr. Kate is already on her way,” she said. “She actually had a dream that you needed her, so she started driving. She'll be here in ten minutes.” It was a surreal and holy moment, and one that helped me to see that Jesus truly was walking through labor with me—taking care of all the details and ensuring that our midwife would be there in time.

When Kate arrived she asked me if I was ready to push. I wasn’t sure – everyone said I’d just know when and how to push, but I really didn’t. All I knew was that everything hurt and I was more than ready to be done. 

"Maybe?" I said.

"Okay," she said, "let's get you on the bed and have this baby!" I stood up in the tub but was too confused and exhausted to move any farther. This is when Kate broke out her Mom-voice.

"Courtney," she said. "You are between contractions. Now is the time to MOVE." Her firm tone was just what I needed. I left the tub and obediently got onto the bed.

Once out of the water I kept praying my mantra, but I started to get stuck in the pain again. Everything hurt more now that I wasn't in the tub, so I started to drop the Jesus talk and just start begging—“I need a break! I just need a little break!” After five hours with contractions one on top of another, I was worn out. Kate saw how close I was to the end, though, and continued to give me the tough love I needed.

“The only way you will get a break is if you finish this,” she said, firmly but not unkindly. “You are getting lost in the pain. Find a way through. We’re almost there.”

Very soon it was time to push that baby out.

Pushing was supposed to come naturally, but it didn’t feel natural at all. I was tentative and uncertain, and Kate could tell. She let me try a few different positions on my own but then sensed that I needed some coaching.

“Let’s try your back,” she said, and instructed me on how to push with my legs pulled back. I never thought this would be the position for me—it seems to work against gravity. But once I tucked my chin, it suddenly made a lot of sense and my body instinctively knew what to do. I began pushing at 5:30am.

Pushing was so much more rewarding than just waiting out contractions. Contractions were just pain, but pushing had a clear purpose. The contractions also hurt much less when I used them to bear down.

At first I pushed modestly. Then I just went for it. With every bit of encouragement, Kate’s “That was a really good one,” Daryl’s “You are doing so great!” and the nurse’s “There you go!” I felt stronger. I also felt less connected to myself. There were definitely noises in that room that did not sound like me. (Another friend described her pushing noises as "primal." I'd say that was right on for me, too!)

After the birth I asked Kate if I'd been yelling as loud as I thought I'd been. Her response?

"More like roaring!"

Kate offered me a mirror as I pusehd, but I didn't want to look. All that was getting me through the pain was picturing the baby almost out, but I knew it wasn't quite there. If I saw how far back it was, I knew I'd be discouraged. This was the only time I did the woman-in-labor-yell-at-people thing. Kate offered the mirror two more times, almost insisting the final time, and I finally just yelled, "NO! I DO NOT WANT THE MIRROR!" She got the message, and didn't mention it again.

After half an hour of pushing, I didn’t have the energy to think anymore, so my body just took over. I pushed and pushed and pushed and don’t remember anything at all about those last fifteen minutes.

Then, suddenly, with one more tremendous push, I felt the baby’s head come out. With another big push, the shoulders followed. After nearly ten months, we had our baby!

“You did it!” everyone cried, and Dr. Kate placed a slippery baby on my chest. I awoke from my pushing stupor and started to come out of Labor Land. I looked down at our little one in utter shock. This was… ours? Mine? This… baby? My first thought was, “Where did this baby come from? Whose is it?” My second was, “Oh praise God, I am DONE!”

(As an aside (and one I think our son will appreciate someday), our slippery little baby was also COVERED in poo. Apparently many post-term babies poo in the womb or on their way out, and ours did, too. Our baby was orange. Our baby looked a little bit like a newborn Oompa Loompa. I couldn’t have cared less!)

Daryl always planned to cut the cord and announce the gender, but it took us a few minutes to get around to those matters. At first we just marveled. The baby was here! Here and crying and blinking at the lights and waving little fists in the air. Then I realized we didn't even know if we'd had a boy or a girl!

“Daryl," I asked. "What is it? Did you check?”

He leaned over, looking for the telltale sign, and smiled. “It’s a boy!” he said. “We have a boy. And you did so great, Sweetheart.” He cut the cord and then someone asked what the baby’s name was. Our baby’s name!

“Are you ready to announce?” Daryl asked.

“Yes,” I said. “That’s his name.”

“His name is Lincoln Paul Ellis,” said Daryl. After months of agonizing about a name, and nearly 42 weeks of pregnancy (!) we had our sweet little Lincoln.

(Rocking the faux-hawk from minute one. He's such a trendsetter.)

We snuggled, Linc nursed like a champion, and Dr. Kate stitched up my myriad of tiny tears. Tearing during labor had been my biggest fear, but in the moment it hardly hurt at all. The healing process wasn't too bad either.

(Baby feets!)

After an hour of mommy-daddy-baby bonding time, the nurse took Lincoln to weigh and clean up – he was 8 pounds, 6 ounces and 19.5 inches long and, after two baths, squeaky clean.

(Daddy was a natural. Apologies to the California side of the family for the Wisconsin football shirt. No, check that, no apologies. Go Badgers!)

It is a day later now, and all of this is still sinking in. I’m a mom. To a dear, beautiful little boy with a Mohawk of blondish brown hair and the most expressive little eyes. I birthed naturally and in only six hours. I was carried by my husband when I could go no farther. I felt both the intense presence of God and the absolute worst pain of my life.

What a day.

It was a holy night indeed.

(About time I posted this! Our little guy will be 4 months old this Monday. How times flies...)