Rush of relief came with the strong urge to push. I felt like some kind of bizarre performance artist as I used the squatting bar on the floor, then on the bed. I struggled for a comfortable position, feeling too tired to continue, wondering how much harder I’d have to work to see my son.
When pushing felt involuntary, the nurses called for the new doctor, who had changed shifts. She suggested I lie on my back and draw my knees up. It wasn’t long before my son slid out like a baby on a water slide.
I tried, but couldn’t hold back from weeping at the sight of Vincent’s beautiful, slimy little seven-pound-sixteen-ounce body. Wrapped in a blanket, he nursed immediately while a burst of energy washed over me. I thanked my higher power for saving me from an IV, epidural, episiotomy and who knows what else. Guy accompanied Vincent to the nursery. When he returned, he said everyone was talking about me. I felt euphoric and wondered if it was anything like runner’s high.
Repeating the process twenty-two months later was a lot sooner than I had anticipated. I had fully expected an easier, shorter labor, but still, I questioned by ability. Technically, labor turned out to be longer—Vincent was born in twelve hard hours, while Julia took seventeen, only two of them hard.
I thought of Alex again as I paced the hospital floors by myself, stopping to endure contractions, then continuing my walk to see who else was spending Christmas day in the hospital.
Guy watched the intensity of my contractions on the monitor as I snored through several hours of deep sleep. The next morning I awoke at six, took a long hot shower and pushed Julia out at 8:15 a.m. Again, no IV, no epidural and no episiotomy. I hadn’t even torn this time. The same doctor who had delivered Vincent, said, “Congratulations, you’ve done it again!”
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