I have been meaning to write this post for a long, long time. I suppose you could argue I’ve been waiting to tell this story since early April of 2022, which is when I gave birth to my son.
Considering he is now nearly three years old, and I have one glorious day where I am actually on top of my freelance deadlines, the sun is shining, and I have a cup of hot coffee at my side, I thought I’d finally write a blog post about my birth story, or: how I learned to stop worrying and love the epidural (I couldn’t resist the title, which is a nod to my former days of cinephilia and a love of all things Stanley Kubrick).
Honestly? I’m fully aware that this post might be dreadfully boring to a lot of people (I lost thousands of followers on my social media platforms when I announced my pregnancy, even people I considered friends and colleagues). In fact, I’ve considered not even posting it or making it password-protected. But one of my 2025 goals for This Battered Suitcase is to remember why I started blogging in the first place, which is to keep a diary and have an outlet for personal writing. I never expected anyone to read this blog all those years ago, just like I never expected to write about my reproductive organs online. And yet, here we are, twenty-two years after starting my first blog, writing about giving birth (which, perhaps not shockingly, does indeed mention my uterus and vagina).
If that hasn’t deterred you, well, thank you ahead of time for reading this very long-winded, very detailed, very public diary entry of the day I gave birth.
I also don’t want to bury the lede: I had a completely normal labour, and my son and I were totally healthy throughout. I recognize that this is an extreme privilege and that not everyone gets to experience that. I’m writing about my labour in a very lighthearted manner, but I want to be sensitive to the fact that writing about pregnancy and birth can be triggering for some. This post might not be for everyone, and I completely appreciate and respect that.
OK then. Let’s begin with, well, the beginning, shall we?
If you’re new here, my birth story starts like so many other birth stories start: a man and a woman fall in love. They live together, they plan a future together, that old chestnut, but – and this is where the story turns – once it is discovered that the woman is pregnant, the relationship quickly (and without warning) ends.
I don’t want to dwell on that part too much because I’ve written about it before (when the wounds were still very fresh), and things are very different with my son’s father now (we’re very cooperative and friendly co-parents). But I can’t write about my pregnancy and birth story without stating the fact that that period of my life was the hardest and most emotionally exhausting time I’ve ever been through. It had a drastic impact on my pregnancy, especially in the first and third trimesters, to the point I had lengthy discussions with my doctor about my stress and emotional well-being and whether that would affect the baby. He assured me it wouldn’t, and I’m happy to report that my baby has always been extremely happy and healthy despite what I went through in my pregnancy.
Leading up to giving birth, I did all the things, perhaps motivated even more because I was on my own. I took Lamaze classes (online; I was the only solo person there), I hired a doula who came for a few private sessions before my baby’s due date, I went to every doctor’s appointment, I got every shot and blood test and vaccine, and I nested and cleaned and shopped LIKE CRAZY. Despite the emotional turmoil I was feeling, I knew I needed to be extra prepared as a soon-to-be single mom; that phase of my life is perhaps the most motivated I’ve been about anything, ever.
Just to set the stage even further: on top of my relationship ending, my career had recently ended as well. The pandemic had completely wiped out all of my writing contracts, and my blog had been reduced to rubble. I went from occasionally making five figures a month as a writer (as I type that, I cannot believe it was once my reality) to making… nothing. Zero cents. If I made even a bit of money in ad revenue from this site, that just went toward the cost of running the site. It was a dire time.
On top of that, when I found out I was pregnant, I immediately knew I wanted to add a bedroom to my house. At one point, this house had three small bedrooms upstairs, but a former inhabitant had knocked down a wall to turn it into two bigger bedrooms. The thing is, one of those bedrooms is my office. And while a few people suggested that I get rid of all my books to make space for a baby room (those people are no longer in my life, hah), I instead decided to take out a second mortgage and use my life savings to renovate my house (which still seems more logical to me than getting rid of three decades worth of books… right?!).
So I was pregnant, single, broke, and not able to live in my house while the renovations were going on. It was also one of the coldest and snowiest winters Winnipeg has had in years. Oh, and it was still very much the pandemic, so I couldn’t really see anyone because I was too scared of getting COVID while pregnant (not to mention my parents don’t live in Winnipeg in winter anyway). When I write those sentences now, sitting in my lovely renovated house, not broke and not pregnant and not isolated (and very happily single), I’m like… what in the actual FUCK.
And again, without getting into too many details, being on your own when pregnant – especially when you expected to be with a loving partner – is an incredibly emotional experience. I don’t allow myself to think too deeply about it because it still has the power to get me really upset.
My whole life, if I had ever pictured having a family, I always assumed I’d have my partner there with me: someone to feel my belly when baby kicked, someone to take progression photos, someone to help pick out baby stuff and put everything together, someone to rub my back or my feet, someone to make me the meal I was craving, someone who would help me do things around the house so I didn’t have to strain myself (see above: snowiest winter in years meant I was shovelling right until I gave birth), someone who saw pregnancy as a partnership. Someone who would get just as excited as I was for what was to come. I’ve had a very solitary life; I have lived on my own for most of adulthood, I’ve travelled the world on my own, hell, I even work on my own! But nothing prepared me for the sadness I would feel being on my own when pregnant.
I swear I’ll get to actually giving birth in a minute (or five), hah.
ANYWAY, I was doing all of the things that I thought I was supposed to do when pregnant, including eating as healthy as possible and working out whenever I could. I truly believe my little boy knew I was going through some difficult times because I didn’t have any pregnancy symptoms in my first or second trimesters. Isn’t that crazy? No morning sickness, nothing. I was definitely fatigued, but I mean… times were messed up, so it’s hard to pin that on the pregnancy.
During that time, I also started Road Trip Manitoba with my friends Dalene and Pete Heck. I wanted to create a new revenue stream and I have always wanted to share my love of my home province online, so it made sense. I poured my heart and soul into it while pregnant, writing every single day for the site (it did really well for a while, but the last year has brought about horrible changes on Google and the emergence of AI, which has since tanked the site. I don’t like talking about it, but I’m hopeful for a rebound one day).
So there I was, writing every day, trying to stay strong and healthy, and living at my dad’s house while the renovations were taking place (he lives in Arizona in winter). And then my third trimester hit.
Oh man. Two pregnancy symptoms absolutely rocked me in my third trimester. One, I developed vertigo, which is still a problem for me to this day. Thankfully, my vertigo was fairly tame compared to some cases I’ve heard of, but I still had the spins constantly, which… when you’re already nine months pregnant, makes things even more difficult.
Two, I developed intense pelvic pain. It’s hard to describe the pain I was feeling, but it was so strong that I couldn’t walk for long periods of time, and sleep was almost out of the question; I simply could NOT get comfortable. I tried everything: stretches, yoga, working out, prenatal massage, a chiropractor, and even pelvic floor therapy (make sure you Google what happens in that appointment so that you’re not as surprised as I was when she took out the latex gloves).
I moved back into my house only ten days before my due date, and the house still wasn’t finished. I had literal mountains of things everywhere; I had obviously moved everything from the upstairs to the downstairs for the renovation, and I had gone crazy buying baby stuff in the leadup to giving birth. I had this intense paranoia that I needed EVERYTHING (and lots of it) because I knew I’d be home alone every day and night with a newborn and never wanted to feel as though I needed something I didn’t have. Like… massive piles of diapers and blankets and toys and clothes and gadgets I never even ended up using (which is why I’m putting together a list of newborn essentials that I used and didn’t use).
In those ten days, I barely slept a wink. I spent at least 18 hours a day cleaning and organizing my house, getting it ready for baby. As chaotic as it was, I actually love doing things like that, so I found great joy in putting away all his tiny clothes, stacking all of his diapers, preparing my breastfeeding stations around the house, and so on.
Also, a quick shout out to Dottie, my dog, who has been with me for seven years now. She’s snoring beside me as I type this and my eyes well up just looking at her, because she was there through it all. She was there through my tears as I wept in bed, wondering how I’d do all of this. She was there for our five-minute walks because my pelvic pain didn’t allow me to walk any further. She was there through renovations, living in a different house, and sleeping on the floor on an air mattress for months of my pregnancy. She was always there, faithfully, by my side. In those final days of my relationship, she started showing signs of intense anxiety, even having accidents on the floor (which is completely unlike her). As soon as it was just the two of us again, all of that anxiety went away. Same girl, same.
OK. Obviously, I needed those 1,700 words of introduction to get to my actual due date, right? Heads up, I do talk a little bit about, well, giving birth, but there are only a few squeamish moments, I swear.
The day before my due date, technically 39 weeks and six days pregnant, I felt ready as ever to give birth; despite the pelvic pain, I absolutely loved being pregnant, but I was so desperate to meet my baby. Therefore, I decided to have a cervical sweep/membrane sweep. If you don’t know, this is when your doctor inserts a finger into your cervix to detach the membranes from the lower uterine segment, which can help induce labour. Did it hurt? Yes, quite a bit. But my doctor is incredible (he’s known as one of the best OBGYNs in Winnipeg) and he made the experience as fast and painless as possible.
I drove home and felt extremely excited (and ready for a hot bath, because I felt a little sore). My contractor had been working on the mud room/back hall that day; the new bedroom was built on top of the back hall, so it needed a new ceiling and needed to be re-drywalled.
I walked into my house. Again, this was the day before my due date, and I had just had a cervical sweep. There was drywall dust EVERYWHERE. Everywhere. Covering every surface of every room in the entire house. While he had sealed the room up, drywall dust is insidious, and if you’ve ever seen photos of my house, you know that I’m a maximalist and have trinkets and tchotchkes everywhere. I also have open shelving in my kitchen and open cabinetry for my pots and pans. There was even drywall dust IN THE CRIB and in my HOSPITAL BAG.
I was livid. I was also so upset; I had spent the past ten days cleaning like mad, doing dozens of loads of laundry with baby-safe detergent, and organizing everything so that the house was completely ready. I had also JUST hired a cleaning crew to come in and deep clean the floors, kitchen appliances, and bathroom, which cost around $400. I went to my bedroom and sobbed for a good hour.
This was around noon. I spent the next 14 hours cleaning, including running the laundry and dishwasher nonstop. At 39 weeks and six days pregnant, I was on my hands and knees cleaning all the baseboards (again), dusting every shelf (again), washing all my Ruggable rugs (again), and so on. I never did get that bath.
I barely slept. The next morning – my baby’s due date – I decided to organize my pantry, which I hadn’t been able to do yet, what with the work going on (the contractor was banished from the house at this point, hah). I was in my back hall when I felt something weird. I looked down and…
Again, I warn you… birth. Bodily fluids.
…something was running down my leg. I remember it being kinda like slightly bloody goo? I knew, of course, that it was my mucus plug (I told this story recently and someone who had never given birth before said, “WHAT’S THAT?!” with a look of genuine terror in their eyes. The mucus plug prevents bacteria or infection from entering your uterus, and losing it is a totally normal symptom of late pregnancy).
I cleaned myself up and finished organizing the pantry. I remember starting to feel just a little bit crampy, but thought it might be the after-effects of the cervical sweep the day before. This was around 11 a.m.
At one p.m., I still had some light cramping, no more than I usually feel during a period (less, even). Just in case, I decided to call my stepmom, as she and my dad would be taking Dottie while I was in the hospital. She came over and brought me some of my favourite food in the city, Greek food from the Greek Market on Corydon. I took one bite of some pita and tzatziki but decided I didn’t really want to eat. She left, taking Dottie, and I decided to take a bath.
By 2 p.m., in the bath, I thought I had my first contraction. Again, it felt like my period cramps, but much more intense and lasting only a few moments. I immediately opened my contractions app and started recording them just in case. Around twenty minutes later, I felt it again. OK, I thought. I think I’m starting labour. But everything I’d read and learned over the past nine-ish months had taught me I’d be in this for the long haul, and so I should just relax until I needed to go to the hospital. It was also my first baby, and first labours tend to take longer.
But then I felt another contraction, only about ten minutes later. And then the next one came seven minutes later. And then five minutes later. And then three minutes later. I went from not knowing if I was in labour to active labour in about an hour. And I was all by myself.
I panicked. I had been pretty calm and feeling good about giving birth until that very moment. I called my sister, who was going to spend the early stage of labour with me (because I thought I would indeed be having an early stage of labour at home). I then called my mom, who was going to come to the hospital with me; her partner Marty was going to drive us.
My sister showed up first, took one look at me, and asked if we needed to call 911.
“Nooooooooooooooo!” I moaned, because I had pictured and prepared for many versions of giving birth, and not one of them included being surrounded by firefighters as I lay on my bathroom floor. I also knew, instinctively, that there was plenty of time to get to the hospital, even though I was leaking a ton of amniotic fluid (i.e. my water was breaking. The way someone’s water breaks in the movies? Yeah, I don’t think it happens that way very often, but it does make for a good cinematic effect).
Thankfully, my mom and Marty showed up shortly after. I was STRESSED, and as much as I love Marty, I just wanted my sister and my mom. My sister drove my mom and me to St. Boniface Hospital, which was about a 20-minute drive in rush hour traffic. At this point, I was having contractions every two to three minutes, and they lasted around a minute.
I have tried to write about what contractions feel like many times, and I keep deleting the paragraph. This is because I don’t really know how to describe them, but “indescribable pain” feels too vague. I also don’t want to scare anyone who is having a baby or wants to have a baby… but maybe don’t read the next sentence?
Like… holy shit. It was SO PAINFUL.
But also – and yes, I’m skipping ahead – I don’t really remember the pain, nor do I really care about it anymore, because it brought me my baby boy. Sitting here now, NOT in active labour, I can be like, “I took comfort in the fact that literal billions of people have gone through this before,” but at that time?! No. I was not thinking of the billions of people who had done this before me. I was only thinking about how much it hurt.
I also think that part of the pain was the fact that it happened so fast. I went from not being in labour in a relaxing bath to racing to the hospital in active labour in less than two hours. I can recognize now that I was having a panic attack at this point, which didn’t exactly fit all those calming Lamaze classes or training with my doula.
I remember that the ride to the hospital felt LONG. And I distinctly remember sitting in traffic on Stradbrook Avenue and locking eyes with a man sitting in the car next to me AS I WAS HAVING A CONTRACTION. I can only imagine what he saw and what he thought was going on in that backseat as I wailed in pain.
When we got to the hospital, everyone was very chill. I mean, they see this every day, sure, but I was FREAKING OUT. I was not cool, or calm, or collected. I wish that I had been, but the panic was making me almost hyperventilate. They put me in a wheelchair and escorted us to the labour ward, where we were told THERE WEREN’T ANY AVAILABLE ROOMS. I knew this was to be expected – people often have to wait in triage before a room becomes available – but it caused my panic attack to worsen.
They put my mom and me in this tiny section of triage (thankfully, there was a separate area for the labour ward, and I didn’t have to go to the main hospital triage). There was only a curtain between me and the rest of the public, mind you. When I say tiny, it had room for a single cot and not much else; it was also extremely hot, which didn’t help my panic. Because I was in triage, they couldn’t give me anything for the pain.
A nurse came in and checked to see how dilated I was, and I was 7 centimetres (you’re considered fully dilated at 10 centimetres). Again, only a few short hours ago, I hadn’t even felt my first contraction. And while I thought most of the staff at St. Boniface Hospital was incredible, and so helpful and kind, this nurse… wasn’t.
Listen, I’m sure everyone has bad days, and I’m sure I was the tenth or even twentieth person in labour she’d seen that day. But this was my first time, and I was scared shitless. I asked her, clearly panicked, how long I’d be in triage. Her answer?
“I have no idea. But if you have to give birth here, you’ll be fine.” And with that, she walked away.
WHAT?! Why would you say that to someone in full panic mode? The thought of giving birth in triage hadn’t even crossed my mind; I just assumed a room would become available before then. Again, I was only a curtain away from the general public. And I know… people have given birth in all kinds of scenarios, and I am lucky to live in a developed nation with free and available healthcare. But c’mon. That is not a pleasant scenario when you’ve been picturing a hospital room (and privacy) during labour for the past 40 weeks.
The same nurse came in and told me to stand up.
“I really don’t want to,” I remember crying/moaning. I was on my hands and knees on the bed, which was the most comfortable position for my back; my lower back had searing pain with every contraction.
“You’ll feel better if you stand up,” she ordered.
I stood up, had a contraction, and immediately fell to the floor. I’m telling you… I DID NOT LIKE THIS NURSE.
On the car ride to the hospital, I had texted my doula, and she arrived while I was in triage. At that time, they had just lifted a few of the rules about hospitals during COVID; only two weeks earlier, every person giving birth was only allowed one person. Now, everyone was allowed one person plus a doula or midwife.
My doula showed up as the nurse was testing me for COVID, which involved shoving one of those huge Q-tips up my nose during a contraction (not fun). If I had tested positive, there would have been different procedures taken during my labour, and my son would have been taken from me at birth to spend five days in the NICU until I tested negative. So when I said earlier I was trying to avoid getting COVID? Yeah, I really didn’t want it (which is a big part of why I continued to get vaccinated during my pregnancy).
And OH YEAH, I forgot to mention this: masks were still mandatory for ALL people in public places. That’s right, during all of this, I was wearing a freaking mask, as were my mom and doula. Now, I am completely pro-mask and pro-vaccine and all the pro-safety precautions to keep people safe. I followed all the rules during COVID. But being in that hot, dark, tiny room as I was in active labour and having a panic attack while I was still leaking amniotic fluid everywhere? Those were not ideal mask-wearing conditions. I remember these guttural moans coming out of me, sounds I had never made before, and I was scared.
Finally… FINALLY… we were told a room was available. By this point, it was about 7 p.m., so we spent nearly three hours in triage (it felt like much longer). I guess now – thousands of words of waffling later – is a good time to tell you my birth plan (hint: it did not involve a mean nurse, sweaty triage, and hyperventilating).
My birth plan was:
- Get an epidural
That’s it. I wanted that epidural SO BAD. There’s a lot of emphasis on non-medicated birth in Lamaze and other birthing classes, but my doula quickly understood that I was very much pro-epidural and she didn’t try to talk me out of it (which I appreciated). So when I got to the labour room, I checked on my status on getting that epidural.
They said someone was available immediately if I wanted it then and there. I jumped at the chance, considering I knew the anesthesiologist did rounds and wasn’t always available. I was prepped, the anesthesiologist came in, and they tried to administer my epidural.
Only, they couldn’t get it right. Not the first time, or the second time, or the third time.
May I remind you I was still having contractions every couple of minutes and I had to remain completely still while they were trying to administer said epidural that involves a giant needle going into my spine? My panic attack had gone away once I was in the room, but I was still in incredible pain. To this day, I have scars where I dug my fingernails into my thighs as I tried to remain still.
Finally, after the third try and MY RIGHT LEG KICKING OUT INVOLUNTARILY, I asked what was going on. It turns out the person wasn’t an anesthesiologist but a resident. Listen, I support everyone needing to learn. But I was done. I wanted the anesthesiologist. Thankfully, he had already been notified that my epidural wasn’t going well and he was in my room in a few minutes. And my epidural was connected only a few minutes after that.
And then?
My mom likes to tell the story of how she left the room for the epidural (they kicked everyone but medical staff out); at that point, I was still in intense pain and pretty panicked. When she returned? I was lying in bed, eating jello, and joking around with the nurses.
So when I say I loved my epidural, I loved it. I know – there are risks involved. I know – there’s stigma involved. But I didn’t care at all about medicated vs non-medicated. I had already been through enough in my pregnancy, and I wanted as little pain as possible. I’m so sick of how “natural birth” is somehow seen as superior, as if using a bit of pain medicine in labour somehow negates the fact that you just grew a human being from scratch. If you want to have an unmedicated labour, good for you! If you want to have a medicated labour, good for you, too! And for me, my epidural meant that I actually really enjoyed giving birth. I still felt powerful and strong, and my baby and I were totally healthy.
What DID happen as a result of my epidural, however, was that my labour slowed down (which is totally normal). Had I not gotten the epidural, my baby probably would have been born on his due date. Instead, he was born a couple of hours after midnight.
So yes, I loved labour once I had the epidural. I was able to walk around, relax, and finally get excited after a few hours of panic and confusion. I could also still feel all of my contractions, although they felt more like pressure than pain. I remember hearing another person give birth in the room next to me, and I was like, wow. This is actually happening.
Around 1 a.m., the OBGYN on duty came in to check on me. I had never met her before but I knew she worked in the same clinic as my doctor, and I had heard good things.
“So, Brenna,” she said to me. “I’m going to check on you and see if I should put on my scrubs and get ready to deliver a baby or if I should go do my other rounds. And Brenna? I really want to put on my scrubs.”
I liked her immediately.
She took a quick glance and said,
“Oh yeah. We’re more than ready to have this baby.” I still don’t know what that meant – how dilated WAS I? – but I was PUMPED.
As soon as she said those words, it was like five more people just magically appeared. I had nurses all around me, plus my mom holding my hand and my doula near the end of the bed. The OBGYN was amazing, hyping me up like she was my biggest cheerleader. I’d also like to point out that the nurses in my room had told me that they’d understand “if my mask slipped down during labour,” so I didn’t have to give birth or meet my son wearing a mask (remember, I tested negative, and everyone else was wearing one).
“Yes, Brenna! You’ve got this! Push for TEN, NINE, YES!! SEVEN, SIX…” and so on. It totally worked for me, and everyone was talking about what a great job I was doing and how well it was going.
One funny thing I remember happening is that the OBGYN patted my belly and said, “What’s this? Her bladder is completely full.” Like… what? How could she see that my bladder was full on the OUTSIDE of my body? I had to have a catheter as the epidural had numbed my urethra and I hadn’t realized I needed to pee. That made more room for baby, which helped the labour.
Another cute memory is my mom putting a special pair of socks on me, our family’s “lucky socks.” My mom wore them in 1981 to give birth to my sister, in 1984 to give birth to me, and in 1989 to give birth to my brother. My sister wore them in 2020 and 2022 to give birth to my nieces. I loved being able to have that little connection to my mom and sister in that very meaningful moment.
It was also so special to have my mom there with me; she had flown in from Toronto for the due date. We’ve been on so many incredible adventures around the world together, and I love that we got to experience this adventure together, too. I also think there’s something so magical and powerful about the woman who gave birth to me being in the same room when I gave birth, there to witness my son’s very first breaths. I am forever thankful that we have that kind of bond, and that I was able to share one of the most amazing moments of my life with her.
And then, at 2:35 a.m… my beautiful boy was born. They immediately put him on my chest, and… I’m crying as I write this… it was like my heart exploded open with love. He was here, he was healthy, and everything was right in the world. I still remember his first tiny cries. I also have this entire moment on video thanks to my doula, and it still makes me bawl. I’m saying, “My baby, my baby,” over and over again, holding him to me.
My mom got to cut the umbilical cord, which she says is one of the coolest and most special things she’s ever done in her life. And after a quick check of my baby, they put him back in my arms. I like to think I’ve never really let go.
I remember asking the resident doctor if I had been loud during labour; I knew that I’d been pretty much silent while pushing, but was anxious about being too loud during triage (now I can’t believe I cared about that). He had been around in triage while I was there and then again during my labour.
“On a scale of one to ten, ten being the loudest?” He said. “I’d say you were about a… one and a half.” In my mind, I had been wailing like an animal, but there you go.
In all, I had an extremely typical and healthy labour, for which I am insanely grateful. I never really allowed myself to think of any big fears before giving birth; again, I had such an emotionally difficult pregnancy that I think my brain didn’t even have room for those kinds of thoughts. I was more caught up in what would happen after the baby was here: how I’d deal with being on my own with a newborn, future custody schedules, how I’d support myself and baby, all that.
That being said, I was weirdly terrified of tearing during pregnancy (episiotomies used to be routine during hospital births in Canada, which is wild… they are quite rare now unless actually needed). I did end up tearing and needing seven stitches, but I didn’t even feel it, so there you go.
I stayed in the labour room for another couple of hours after giving birth. Another funny (gross?) thing I remember is that as the OBGYN was examining me and stitching me up, I was acutely aware of a TV screen behind them. The TV was off, but do you know what a TV screen does when it’s off? It reflects everything. EVERYTHING. I could see what they were looking at, in other words. I remember thinking it looked like a river of blood, but I also didn’t care about anything at that point with my son in my arms. I also remember cuddling my son and being overwhelmed with joy and glancing up to see them thoroughly examining my placenta, but again, I did. not. care.
I was surprised at just how quickly the nurses had me trying to breastfeed. Within 20 minutes of giving birth, they were already trying to get my son to latch. I struggled with breastfeeding in the first few months but ended up breastfeeding my son until he was almost two; I can write about that in another post one day, but I’m a big advocate for “fed is best”, meaning I support breast/chestfeeding, formula, or a combination of the two. Whatever is needed to get baby fed, because breastfeeding is a massive privilege.
In the labour room, I also had to be prepped for a Rh immune globulin (WinRho) shot; because my blood type is A- and my ex’s is positive, I already received this shot at 28 weeks pregnant. The shot is given intravenously, so an intern was trying to prep the veins in my arm… and missing with the needle over and over again. I’ve always been told I have “easy veins” so this was really weird (and painful). While this was going on, blood from my son’s umbilical cord was tested… and he’s A-, too! So I didn’t even need the shot (although I did have huge bruises on my arm for a couple of weeks afterward). I always thought my son and I having the same blood type, and a rare one at that, was another little nod to us being super connected.
My son and I were finally moved to our own private room. I’ll say this: I picked St. Boniface Hospital because I wanted my particular OBGYN and I heard the staff was, in general, amazing. The hospital is not necessarily well-known for having the most comfortable rooms. That being said, my room was fine, if a bit sterile and cold. I also had to use a public shower but that was OK (I never encountered another person in the shower room).
Unfortunately, the nurse who showed me the room seemed incredibly tired (it was around 3:30 a.m. at this point). She basically flicked on the lights and showed me where the bathroom was. In my delirium and excitement, I didn’t realize the bed could raise, so I spent the next couple of hours trying to prop myself up and breastfeed using only one pillow on a flat bed. I also spilled my entire water bottle in my bed and was too embarrassed to call anyone for help. Looking back… why?? Why didn’t I just ask for help?!
Thankfully, by 6 a.m., there was a lovely nurse who helped me a lot, making sure to check in regularly and bring whatever I needed. It seemed there was an endless rotation of new people checking on me and on my son to make sure we were both healthy, which was exhausting but also very necessary and welcomed. I was also very sore – going to the bathroom, even just to pee, was a doozy – but I was so in love and happy that I didn’t care.
At one point I was fully naked (with the exception of a diaper-ish thing, nobody said giving birth is glamorous) and a woman came in to talk while I tried to breastfeed. I assumed she was another nurse, but she was a social worker. The nurses had heard about my situation as a single mom and it turns out it’s hospital protocol to make sure the parent feels safe to go home. It was a tough conversation and it threw me for a loop in a vulnerable time, but I appreciate that they were just trying to keep me safe.
My sister was able to visit that afternoon as she was my “one visitor” besides my mom. Because the rules had just changed and my doula had also been in the hospital at one point, there was a big fuss at security getting her in. I had asked for a Big Mac meal (don’t judge) and it was completely cold by the time they let her visit me, hah.
After that, I was all alone with my baby boy. My mom had gone home to get some sleep – the hard hospital couch wasn’t ideal for sleeping – and so it was just me and him, him and me, from about 7 p.m. onward until the next morning. There are so many things I remember about that time together, and again, my eyes well up writing about it: I remember staring at him sleeping in his little bassinet, so in awe that he was actually here; I remember holding him and singing to him as he made his little newborn coos and sighs; and I remember, just as vivid as it were yesterday, the first time he really opened his eyes and looked at me. It was such a tumultuous pregnancy journey, but none of that mattered anymore.
Technically, I was cleared to go home within 24 hours of giving birth, but I wanted to wait until the morning. Around 9 a.m., my mom came back with the car seat, and we packed everything up. Marty had driven my car, and I sat in the backseat with my baby; I remember instructing Marty to go 15 kilometres an hour the entire way home, hah. I had asked my mom and Marty if they would decorate the house with a few “Welcome Home Baby” things – it was just something I had always wanted – and it was so fun to drive up and see the sign in the window.
That day at home, I was able to have my sister and brother-in-law visit as well as my dad and stepmom, but by dinnertime, I was on my own again. It feels so crazy to think back and be like, oh wow, I had changed maybe three diapers in my life and then here you go! You’re a mom and you’re totally on your own! Have fun! I wrote a bit about motherhood in that first year in this post (including lots of cute photos of Sunshine in his first year), but I’ve yet to really dive into what I’ve learned and how I feel about it because, well, I’ve been so in it that I haven’t had much time to write. I hope that changes soon.
I had no idea what I was doing, and yet I knew exactly what to do…? I look back at the photos and videos and I look tired, but I look so happy. After all that difficulty with the renovation and work and being on my own, my baby and I were safe in our house, healthy and happy. And really, what more could you ask for?
I feel like I could keep writing and writing and writing, all of these thoughts about motherhood and birth. About the privilege of a healthy and “easy” pregnancy and labour. About the privilege of giving birth in a country like Canada, where my final bill was $88 ($44 a night for a private room. If I left it to what was available, potentially getting a shared room, I wouldn’t have paid anything). About co-parenting a newborn and how to manage that stress (that’s for another day, but please know that my son’s father is very much involved and he is a great dad). About how honoured I feel to have been pregnant and given birth but also how staunchly pro-choice I am (always have been and always will be).
This post ended up being a lot longer than I thought it would be, but then again, who am I kidding? I have never been good at being concise. Nearly three years later, it’s amazing to me how vivid all of these memories are, and that I can remember things hour by hour.
At the end of the day, I really enjoyed giving birth. As mentioned, I felt powerful and strong, and I’m so glad that I experienced it. Despite the pain, despite the panic, I think of my birth story as a really positive and fun story (which I know is a huge privilege, and I’m so grateful for that). I don’t think I’ll ever have another baby, and I often feel sad that I’ll never be pregnant again, as I absolutely loved it.
If you made it this far through this diary entry, thank you. And if you’ve given birth and are comfortable sharing an anecdote from your birth story in the comments below, I’d love to hear it!
