First Fruit | Charlotte’s Birth Story

We used to call our daughter “first fruit.” She is the first life to form inside of me. She is the first manifestation of the love Michael & I share.

Our daughter was born around 7pm weighing 7 pounds, 7 ounces. Hers was an induced hospital birth. I jokingly tell people that my first baby had to be evicted. It was a big departure from the low-intervention birth we wanted. But Charlotte brought with her the inner wisdom and completion that her triple seven birth stats represent.

No one needed to sell me on the power of the female body, even though I didn’t grow up around babies or self-affirmed birthing women. Shook as I was by the prospect of a long labor ending in cesarean, (which is how I made it into this world) I always knew that my birth experience could be my own. And I held onto that divine assurance when I found out I was having my first baby. 

“But you don’t have to be a hero,” were the words of my OB/GYN after I told him I wanted to forego an epidural. I still remember the barely restrained chuckle I got from him as I handed him my birth plan over his crowded desk.

I chose my obstetrician without much research about my options for maternity care. Even though I’d heard of midwives and I knew my body was designed for birth, I didn’t think I was brave enough to do it outside of a hospital setting. My GYN become my OB by default. Once he confirmed that I was pregnant, he moved me seamlessly into his obstetric care. He was pleasant enough. He answered my questions. His top priority was delivering my baby safely and quickly. I believed he would help me achieve a low-touch, natural birth at the hospital. What I didn’t know is that I needed more than just productivity and a friendly smile to reach that goal.

In April of 2018, the Black Mamas Matter Alliance published a paper that addressed the casual dismissal that too many black women face during prenatal care. “In order to provide holistic care, providers and medical staff must unlearn and self-correct implicit and unconscious bias. They must also continue to push back against a productivity model that does not give them enough time to build strong relationships with their patients.”

Taking the time to listen to, respect and center mothers—especially expectant black mothers whose birth outcomes are staggeringly unjust—can make a life-altering difference on our maternal health experience. If I knew what I did now, I would have pushed back about why a doula’s presence made my doctor nervous. I would have explored my care options once I found out I was pregnant. I would have learned sooner that despite what I thought, many midwives deliver within the hospital setting. And while I would have been right to advocate for myself, patient-centered care is not a responsibility that should be heaped solely onto the backs of the mother, regardless of who is providing her care. Who is at the center of care if a pregnant mother is advocating for herself, by herself?

My doctor knew that a spontaneous vaginal birth was a close second to a healthy baby on my list. But my cervix was not having it as 40 weeks turned into 41. Bowls full of fresh pineapple, nipple stimulation and sex that I got zero kicks out of, produced a lot of practice contractions but no results. The induction talks started looming and the lack of strong relationship between us showed.

While checking for cervical progress at my 40-week exam, I shrieked when I felt a sharp, new sensation that I couldn’t have prepared myself for. “Do you know what I did?” my OB flatly asked. Based on my latest search to start labor naturally, I knew that he had stripped my membranes. I knew that he hadn’t asked before doing it. What I didn’t know is that in those brief and seemingly harmless unpleasant couple of seconds, my bodily autonomy was ignored. I wasn’t able to recognize that until years later. 

When I got all the standard late term tests that confirmed that my baby & I were healthy, my doctor worried that my baby was getting “too big.” The notoriously off-base estimated fetal weight ultrasound predicted that our first fruit was heading toward 9 pounds. And if I waited until 42 weeks, the risks associated with post-term pregnancy and delivery would stack up against me and my OB’s vacation schedule. “You could end up with whatever doctor is on call,” he reminded me as time went on.

At that point I’d watched enough of The Business of Being Born to be terrified of a Pitocin-induced labor. “What if my baby is too big to push out? I don’t want a random doctor delivering my baby.” 

So at 41.5 weeks, I agreed to give our baby notice and have my water artificially ruptured.

Michael and I tried to sleep as best as imaginable in a hospital room the night before an induction. Overnight my cervix ripened while the Cervadil did its job, taking the place of the natural hormones the body usually deploys when it’s time for a baby to meet the world. I drifted in and out of sleep. Occasionally I’d wake to hear a laboring mom wailing down the hall as I began to lose grip of my divine assurance.

By 8am the following morning, my water was broken, our baby slipped down into position and labor started. Michael held my hand as we watched television and talked through the early contractions. I quickly moved from the bed to the yoga ball we’d brought with us as the contractions came closer together, much closer than I’d anticipated. I later learned that without the cushiony-sack of amniotic fluid, the intensity of my labor surges would be turned all the way up.

While our doula, Andrea, fought against the typically horrendous DC-area morning traffic to get to us from a birth already in progress, our labor nurse brought me popsicles. Hunger is one of the strongest feelings I remember from this labor. Turns out it’s also one of the worst motivators for labor too. I took swigs from the bear-shaped bottle of honey that we snuck in as I plotted how Andrea could pick up a bagel sandwich and still make it to us quickly. My OB was in and out, checking my progress as he bounced from me and a scheduled cesarean he had to prepare for.

“You’re doing really well. You can have an epidural now if you want one,” he said as he checked my dilation & effacement. “No,” I nodded. “I’m fine.”

“Let her go at her own pace. We aren’t going to rush this baby, my OB murmured to the labor nurse as he left. I wondered if he said that for my benefit or if he was used to rushing babies.

I went from my ball, to the toilet, to a chair, to a bed and back to the ball. The contractions started to get away from me. I couldn’t relax anymore as I slipped into hard, active labor. I fought my body, willing it to hurry up so I could rest. And when that rest came, all I could do was slump over and wait for the next one. I was barely hanging on. Michael told me afterwards that my skin had a pasty gray undertone, a far cry from usual milk chocolate hue.

Though my body was doing productive work, I told myself it wasn’t. “I just want to go to sleep,” I whispered to Michael as I went into another surge. Our labor nurse, in awe of my effort up until this point, suggested an epidural so that I could rest. Michael, who at that point was all out of comfort techniques cautiously reminded me of my birth plan. He assured me that Andrea was a couple of minutes away. But for a tired, hungry, mentally and physically spent birthing woman, a couple of minutes is an eternity.

I said yes to the epidural as I saw my divine assurance slowly drift away from me. Andrea arrived right after it was done. “I failed.” I was crying as the epidural tubes were taped and secured onto my back.

“You need rest to push your baby out. You are having a baby. You haven’t failed anything or anyone.” With a steady, prophetic wisdom that doulas are known for, Andrea comforted me and helped gather my focus. Everyone helped me into bed. And with that regained energy and focus came the realization that I wasn’t pain-free.

“Um, I can still feel something on one side of my belly.” My OB was back to ensure I was still progressing and suggested that a full bladder might be the cause. Nothing changed after a catheter and a boost in the drugs running into my spine. I didn’t have to rely on the monitor to tell me that another contraction was on its way. I could still feel each one.

I was in the small percentage of women who experience something called a window. This is when the pain relief of the epidural doesn’t spread to all areas that it’s designed to. I’d gotten enough medication to ease my exhaustion but not go completely numb. I went from having nothing left but self-pity and a grumbly stomach to being clear-headed and recharged. So, when the anesthesiologist offered to remove the epidural and try again, my divine assurance was bright eyed & bushy tailed when I said, “No. I made it this far.”

With the support of Michael and my doula, I got out of my own way and let my body do its work. I couldn’t walk around, so Andrea made sure that I moved, turning me from one side of my body to the other every half hour. I continued to rest and side-labor like that with the room lights turned low, the only sound coming from the fetal monitor, its meditative beeping soothing me in a strange way.

As I hit the transition phase of labor, I wondered why I even had those damn tubes in my back. I breathed in low guttural tones as Andrea reminded me to let go of the tension I was carrying in my jaw. I was hot, then cold. I rambled on and on, then went silent.

I remember yelling at Michael to get off a phone call he’d answered right as a contraction mounted. “I bet you’re complete,” Andrea knowingly suggested.

Soon afterward, my OB confirmed what my doula knew were the signs of a woman ready to move into the next stage. “Oh, praise God!” I yelled. I could start to push. I never felt the urge to bear down but I pushed when I felt a contraction. I could feel the pressure of my baby coming down, resting on my perineum and I reached down to touch her hair as she crowned.

I was almost done. It felt wonderful knowing completion was near and I let myself float in this moment. I remember feeling so peaceful, though I had to moan through the pushing-surges. I was doing it. I was doing the beautiful work of birthing a child. Though everything wasn’t perfect, my experience was my own.

I pushed for about 45 minutes although it didn’t feel that long. Michael recalls me needing a couple gulps of oxygen on the last set of pushes.

And far more calm and beautiful than my divine assurance could have ever hinted, at 7:24pm after 11 hours of labor, we finally met our daughter. First Fruit came into the world in all her glory, with the knowing, triple seven energy that sustained me during a labor I never expected. We hit the jackpot.