Prodromal labor is a bitch. Especially when you get it every pregnancy. Prodromal labor is an extended early labor period lasting for days or weeks. It can often feel like real labor but without significant change. It can trick your mind into thinking, this is it! Needless to say, 4 out of 4 of my pregnancy’s had prodromal. Yay me. If you know my previous stories, you know that I have birthed two of my own babes and a surro baby in 2017. You may not know that at the end of 2018, I attempted a second surrogacy with a private family. Unfortunately, the embie transferred failed to thrive, and we did not have a successful cycle. That family and I keep in touch on occasion but agreed to end the process. 

Fast forward to the middle of 2019. I felt the urge to be a surrogate again. I know many have their opinions on surrogacy, and while I respect your views, they don’t matter to me. Any who, I interviewed with a family, and we matched. The process began and the first embie to be transferred thrived with ease. My guess date was July 26.

I had a great pregnancy with bouts of nausea and pica. Like literally, all I wanted to do was sniff pine-sol all day. Don’t worry, I didn’t. Those who know me know I am a hippie by nature. But I did concoct my own pine-sol (email me for the recipe) and frequently cleaned with it just to have the smell. Then the craving turned into Eucalyptus. Word of advice make sure your iron levels are steady.

I stayed working the entire time. Teaching yoga, filling postpartum shifts, and attending births. I did keep my pregnancy a secret from social media to avoid backlash, but I am telling this story for one reason. Doulas are ESSENTIAL, especially right now, with what is going on globally—a little back story. Coronavirus hysteria hit the U.S. in the middle of March and turned the world upside down. This mass hysteria led to many parents separated during appointments, doulas being restricted from attending hospital births, and so very sadly, babies being separated from their parents. Surrogate babies born in these months with family in restricted travel areas were included in these separations.

Flash forward to further in my pregnancy: my thirtieth birthday, July 20. I struggled with being pregnant and turning 30. I wanted so badly to be able to really celebrate my birthday with no restrictions. I see 30 as such a huge milestone in life. I don’t think of dirty 30 or 30 AF. I believe it is the start of something deeper in your transition of life. When I had started this contract, it was just before a special holiday for the family, and the transfer was put on hold until after it was over. If we had transferred on the original date, I would have given birth before my special day. 

It took deep reflection to come to terms with it. I realized that at the end of the day, spending my birthday carrying a baby was special. Carrying life for a well-deserving family while celebrating three decades of my own was a gift itself. A few days later, my mother in love flew in to help us when the time came to birth this little bundle of cuteness.

We got to enjoy the beach and then decided to go to the zoo the first Saturday she was there (July 25). I was in prodromal labor for quite some time, but after 3 prior pregnancies, I just knew it was my normal. I was ready when he was. I would not be rushing him out but rather being patient with the process. The best thing to do when you are in labor is labor while distracted. You want to have your attention on other things happening in life. This helps make the labor flow much easier on the mind and body.

When we were at the zoo, walking up and down and all around, I had significant surges. Ones that actually felt like “the” thing. Alas, I stayed hydrated and happy, hanging out with the family. We left in the late afternoon and went home to eat dinner. The surges I had been experiencing throughout the day tapered off like normal, and I drifted off to sleep, wondering if he would go to 42 weeks on the day like my three births before. At 4:21 AM on July 26, I woke up to a massive surge that felt so beautifully intense. I knew this was it. It was so it that I had to rush to pack a bag because if you knew about the last babe, you would know I had a precipitous labor and birth. Aka, he literally was born within an hour of labor starting. 

So, I am rushing to put my bag together, I wake up my mother in love to come with me to the birth center and wake up husband to let him know we were leaving. For whatever reason, Divine stepped in, and plans changed. My husband decided to come, reluctantly; poor guy was up all night at work the day before. So, we left at 4:30 after I called the midwife and let her know that I knew for a fact this was it. Ha, the poor woman remembered my last surro birth and trusted my instinct well.  

My husband and I got to the birth center around 4:50 AM, and I swear to God; he is the best labor partner and doesn’t even know it. He kept me laughing hysterically through these surges so well. I legit had to Kegel because that baby was dropping on my bladder, and I nearly pissed my pants from laughing so hard. I kept praying the midwife would get there quick because I knew my body was moving fast. The site of her car was the best feeling in the world. She arrived at 5:01 AM; we followed her around back and got our rona check before entering. Two other midwives were present and filling the tub for me. I got in, and it was game on. I was already 8 cm and progressing quickly and with ease. My water broke, and I turned around in the tub to face my midwife because he was descending fast. And also, for some reason, I didn’t want my husband to watch him. I wanted him to have my back. Which he totally did. 

The ring of fire came with a fury, and I will never forget locking eyes with her this time and saying, “this one fucking burns.” I never experienced that real burning sensation before, and that single moment, I knew this baby would be bigger than my others. At 6:27 AM on his guess date, little Frank was born gently in the water surrounded by all the love I could give him.

***TRIGGER WARNING***

And this is where the trauma started for me. Please understand that in birth, things don’t always go as planned; they don’t always go the way a midwife or doula or parent expects. Fears can be very real in the moment. Fears can lead to an abundance of caution, changes in your perception, and a change of heart. I want to warn you that the following part of my story is extremely traumatic for me and may trigger anyone reading it. I have been working through these emotions and will continue that work for a long time. No, that doesn’t mean I am depressed or angry. It just means that birth and postpartum are critical moments in life that should never be touted as anything less than significant. If you or someone you know needs help processing a traumatic experience and needs a resource to work through it, please email me.

I can’t express enough; how perfect little Frank entered the world. He was carried to the surface to experience his first breath by gentle and patient hands. He had a normal cord wrap that was quickly removed. Surrounded by women holding space and a man holding profound masculine energy. He had love in these moments. His little cry was perfect, and he quieted when he knew he made his first statement to the world. He is an absolutely perfect little soul, and I am thankful to be a part of his spiritual journey through life. Little Franks cord was short, but as it dulled from deep purple to white, we clamped and cut it shortly after its pulse was no longer felt. Delayed cord clamping is one of the most important things you can do for a baby upon their birth before cutting that sacred tie of two worlds.

As I was sitting in this warm water, enjoying the kindred touch of his energy, my midwife asked me to start pushing the placenta out. Intuitively, I felt it wasn’t ready. Alas, I pushed anyways. An average pocket of blood escaped my womb and entered the tub. While it was a normal amount, I was encouraged to get the placenta out sooner. I was asked if I would be willing to get out of the tub and try on the bed. I was in good spirits and ready to move through this stage of birth. 

I handed little Frank over to my husband. I admit, every time I see my husband hold a child, I am reminded of why I fell in love with him. I fall a little more in love every time. My husband has intense masculine energy about him, and it is incredibly attractive, physically, and mentally. Plus, babies and big guys are just cute to look at. I never knew how much I loved my husband until moments later when I needed him more than anyone in the world.  

I was held by the hands of my team as I stepped out of the tub. I could feel the cord between my legs just swaying in the space. As I laid on the bed, I was instructed to push again. I was given Pitocin to try to get my placenta out faster. I was in a dedicated space of labor lala land that even in my doula brain, I could not get out the question, “can we wait” out? With traction, my cord snapped and retracted back inside my womb, causing alarm and chaos I never imagined would happen to me. With permission, of course, my midwife asked to complete a manual extraction.

 She told my husband to pass Frank on to get his vitals and be with a fellow midwife while he came to hold my hand and support me. In a matter of seconds, I was reminded of one of the most beautiful births I had witnessed years ago, which ended with a mother getting manual extractions requiring my hand to hold as dad cared for the baby. I will never forget the chills of her screams of agony as she looked deeply into my eyes, wondering when it would stop. That woman and her experience flashed through my eyes as I agreed to have mine completed. With a cord retraction, it is imperative to remove the placenta much more quickly than it would typically release.

I held my husband’s hands, and really what felt like ages was only a matter of seconds between it snapping and the manual beginning. My midwife repeatedly attempted to release it, but I started to lose a bit more blood. They determined that I was going to need more assistance, and an ambulance was called. I will never forget the touch my husband gave me. Ems arrived just as another mother was walking in to bring her baby earthside. They started to load me on to the gurney and passed little Frank into my arms for safekeeping. I felt the blood pouring out of me in waves but felt the placenta’s very real pressure. Or so I thought. I think I just wanted it to end.

My brain kept telling me it was right there. In the ambulance, I was in and out of consciousness, which at one point alerted the team, and they coded me to the emergency department. They kept trying to get IV access and did at some point, although I couldn’t tell you when. I came to in the emergency department lobby with 30 plus doctors and nurses surrounding me. When they realized EMT’s reported incorrectly, they congratulated me on the birth and wheeled me to triage.

I just let them know it wasn’t my baby and that my husband and Frank’s aunt was on the way to support Frank and me. I was taken into a triage room and was repeatedly asked if my midwife was coming, to which I repeated again that my husband was. I needed him. I felt in my bones that I needed him. It was the tiniest of rooms and the most amount of people. Anxiety and fear set in quickly as I felt more blood coming out. While they were asking me a thousand and one questions, they swiftly grabbed Frank and took him to the NICU. They were trying to gain IV access again, despite one already being placed. I was quickly introduced to a female OB and had to give permission in all the chaos for her to attempt more manual extractions.

My husband finally arrived, and I tried to cling to him for life as the nurses and staff just kept trying to push him away. While the OB dug in my uterus, reaching for any piece of placenta she could get, I was screaming in agony, blood gushing out and needles and injections going in me left and right. They shoved consent forms in my face to sign at the same time another a nurse shoved a COVID q-tip down my nose telling me to breathe this way or that, into the other nostril and a different form of breathing and back into the other side. It was pure hell. All I could think about was I am dying; my husband has no idea where my will is. I will never see my children again, I didn’t say goodbye to Frank, and I will never see my husband or hold his hand. I was bleeding so badly, and after two very long gruesome manual attempts, I was consenting to an emergency D&C. As I was whisked from the room, I didn’t even get one last look at my husband. He was shoved to the side in a corner alone.

I was supposed to be in “twilight” induced anesthesia. As they put my feet in the candy cane stirrups, I was again in an out of consciousness until they put me under full sedation. I won’t ever forget the round white circle above my head as my last look at what I felt was the end of my life.

I woke up much later in a recovery room crying in deep pain on my left side. Crying for my husband, I finally saw him. And I lost it more. I couldn’t understand why my hip was in so much pain because I felt my birth went so perfectly. I couldn’t move it without crying out. It was horrible. And every time those pressure cuffs built up their squeeze on my legs, in made it worse. I wanted to rip them off so badly. Finally, a nurse came in and assessed, saying she didn’t understand why my hip was hurting and that I must have done something to it when I was birthing. I felt so angry that she wasn’t listening. 

It took several people to finally admit that during my surgery, something had happened. They continued to say that I must have kicked my leg. But there was no way it was just a kick, especially while I was sedated. After an x-ray, CT, and finally an MRI, they told me my psoas muscle was torn. I will never know what actually happened, but I sincerely believe that my leg fell from the stirrup because a muscle tear like that doesn’t happen from a tiny kick. So not only did I have a retained placenta, cord retraction, and hemorrhage, but a deep and very painful muscle was torn. It was single-handedly one of the most terrifying and defeating moments of my life. I will never forget that trauma. It was so much all at once being done to my body. The only thing I could think of in those moments leading up to the surgery is that women die like this all the time, that our statistics in the U.S. are horrid; that I was going to die.

I thought about how I would never see my children and husband again. And at that moment, not only did I need my husband, but I needed myself. Who I am as a doula. I needed a doula. But because of this God-forsaken shutdown of our world, I was not allotted one. They were not allowed. But I needed a doula to hold my hand and look me in the eye and tell me she would see me on the other side. I needed a doula to hold my husband as he was secretly panicking inside, watching his wife bleeding out on a table for a child that wasn’t even his. I needed a doula that would have offered me a real understanding of the forms I was signing and assured me again that I would be ok. Because even if I hadn’t made it to the other side, having those words before I went would have been so assuring.

I had to say goodbye to my husband again as he had to leave, and I wasn’t allowed his long presence because of COVID policies. I also thought about how sad I was for all the parents going through this, not getting the experience they deserved. I never knew how important I was to someone until I had to live this experience. I stayed in the hospital for 2 days postpartum due to my blood cell counts’ depletion and being severely anemic from the hemorrhage. 

It wasn’t until a midwife came in to check on me that hadn’t even met me, suggested they give me iron. Which, by the way, was absolutely disgusting. I got to go home that next day with a sexy walker because I couldn’t walk on my own due to the tear. The hardest part about going home was that I not once got to say goodbye to little Frank. It was unfair to him, and I to not have that opportunity. 

Yesterday I was 8 weeks postpartum. I suppressed my milk supply in a matter of days following birth. And I already had my first moon cycle post-birth. My body responds quickly in postpartum. But I want to talk about my mind.

My mind still thinks of these brutal moments. I have seen all the practitioners that served me during this experience. I have heard conflicting stories on both sides, and they both agree that the chaos could have been avoided. That so many things could have been avoided. I reflect on it daily. I think that both parties served me in their best capacity. Both parties had fears of their own due to previous experience with another surrogate that went before me. Both had reservations with my birth because of their prior experiences. 

Every day I have to tell myself that it was not personal, that nothing was intentional, but every day, I question if fear and perception were taken out of the equation, would I still have experienced what I did? I won’t ever know, and one thing that remains true is that I am thankful that it happened to me and not someone else. I believe that because I am a birth worker, I can process this experience in a considerably different way than others would have.

I know that I have a new appreciation for my life. I love my husband on an even deeper level than I ever have. My children look so much cuter, and I love them more than I could have before. It doesn’t mean that I didn’t love these people before my experience, but it does mean that when you have an NDE, you find new levels of love and appreciation that you could not have before it. I want my midwife team to know that my perception is mine and that I have no ill feelings against them. I also hold no qualms to the treating OB and staff at the hospital. Deep down, the one that I was the most thankful for was my husband. He was my lifeline. I am so deeply sorry that he had to experience what he did. It wasn’t fair to him, not that he had a choice, but I hope that he will heal from his own perceptions when he is ready.

Above all, I am writing this not only for my own healing but because you never know just how critical consistent support is until you need it. People die giving birth in the United States at very high rates. Black and brown people are at the highest risk of dying in childbirth and postpartum versus their white counterparts. Birth and postpartum should not be a death sentence in a country with supposedly excellent healthcare. We need to change. We need medical staff trained to treat labor as a natural experience until it becomes a medical treatment. 

We need a supporting team to see the color of someone’s skin and recognize that they may be at higher risk than their other patients. We need the rights of people to not be violated. We need doulas. We need them more now than ever. Right now, we are fighting so desperately to gain access to hospitals as doulas. We currently have access to home birth and birth center births in San Diego. As the state’s second-largest county, we need to support the families giving birth right now. They need another person in their corner. They need someone that will hold them physically and spiritually.

We need to have pregnant, birthing, and postpartum bodies to matter.

Who we are starts in the womb. We need to provide the best experience to babies and their families from the start. This is how we heal the world, one baby, at a time.

I know in my bones how important I am as a doula, and I will never again take my role for granted.

May your birth & postpartum space be held sacred.