My COVID Birth Story – Pt. 3
This is Part 3 of my story. If you haven’t read Part 1 and Part 2, I recommend starting there.
We left off in the middle of Saturday night, more than 24 hours into a reluctant induction. In the darkness, I realized I needed to lay down the ideas I’d had about what my birth would be like, in order to make room – and make decisions – for the birth I was actually having.
Sunday, April 5th: 42 weeks + 2 days pregnant
In the morning, our angel-midwife walked in. It was Lene, who had so tenderly cared for me the Sunday before. She brought fresh energy into our stale room. She sat down and looked me in the eye as I explained to her how literally nothing on our list of birth preferences was possible at this point. I said that with laughter, but I think she knew how much I hated that it was true. I told her that we were finally going to give in to the Pitocin drip, but I wanted an epidural first.
Lene took every chance to remind me that I had plenty of time; nobody was in a rush. She encouraged me to take a shower, wash off Saturday night, and reset.
Heeding her advice, I took what felt like the slowest shower of my life. Add to that the time it takes to disrobe and re-robe a body as pregnant as mine, I swore I’d squandered at least two hours of her time. But upon checking the medical notes later, I learned it was just 45 minutes from meeting Lene until having my epidural placed. Time is truly elastic. Those three quarters of an hour felt like a long reset break I needed, simply because of Lene’s attitude.
And now we’ve arrived at the spa party portion of my labor.
When I walked into my new room with the green wall (which Lene told me had the good juju of the two babies she’d birthed here herself), Bjarke had set out the tulips and Lene had posted our revised birth preferences on the cabinet across from the bed. The new plan was four short words: “Have a baby today.”
I received that epidural needle like it was a hug from a friend. Then I ate a blackberry pancake and had a nap. Bjarke went ‘out’ to lunch at 7-11. When I woke up, Bjarke shared his 7-11 snacks and massaged my legs with lavender oil (such love, since he despises the scent) while classical music played in the background.
Party time: epidural in, relaxation up. That pink sheet on the blue cabinet contains my revised birth preferences: “Have a baby today.”
A few short hours into this epidural + Pitocin + relaxation elixir, Lene checked me. To my shock, I was fully dilated! She removed her gloves and said sincerely, “I think you made a really good decision.”
After weeks of fraught decision-making, this was the best thing anyone could have said to me. Until now, it had been like navigating an inky black cave – each decision excruciating, because there was no way to know if the choice would lead us out… or further underground. Lene’s words affirmed: my intuitive decision-making muscles weren’t broken. I still had the ability to do what was right for me and my baby. We were finally (FINALLY) on our way out of the cave.
Getting the epidural was the best decision I’d made, and I would have never, ever predicted that.
On that same affirming vein, Lene guided me through a self-examination of my cervix and I felt my baby’s head!
In the effort to stay mobile, even as my bottom half was numb, Lene suggested I try to walk. She and Bjarke swung my legs over the edge of the bed and assumed spotting position on each side. I put some weight on my legs, showing promise at first, but after a few moments, they began to crumple. My spotters were a bit startled but broke my fall and then used considerable strength to hoist me back onto the bed. Ok, so no walking then.
Instead, we rang our doula who coached over video how to set me up in the ‘Norwegian side-lying release’ to prep for birth. In lieu of physical presence, we sprinkled video chats throughout my labor and she grabbed whatever props she could reach – a baby doll, her teenage daughter, etc. – to demonstrate her recommendations.
To cope with the growing intensity of my contractions (I could still feel them build and release; the epidural just dulled them), I called for counter pressure on my hips. Funny enough, I’d been so nervous about not understanding the Danish spoken around me with my blurred labor brain…but now in the moment, every time I felt a wave building, it was me who called out in clear Danish, “Der kommer en ve! Der kommer en ve!” (“A contraction’s coming!”). Bjarke or the midwife – whoever got there first – would press their hands as hard as they could against my hips.
Counter pressure!
Later in the afternoon, Lene began to hint that she may not be the one to greet our baby – nor enjoy a slice of our home-baked birthday cake. Instead, she told us that she’d been pitching our case to a fellow midwife named Inge whom she thought would be a great match for us. Who wouldn’t want to join our spa party? I told Lene to make sure Inge knew about the cake.
Around this point, the Pitocin drip was turned off. The reason was twofold: 1) To free my hand up to receive IV antibiotics that protect my baby from possible infection, since more than 24 hours had passed since my water was broken, and 2) To see if my body would take over. To my delight, my contractions remained strong, doing the work that needed to be done.
The time eventually came to meet Inge and say goodbye to Lene. I’d grown so attached to her – after all, she’d scooped us up off the ground and helped us find firm footing again. It felt wrong that she wouldn’t be rewarded with the honor of meeting our babe, so we got her email and promised to send a photo.
Now we were in the care of Inge, who seamlessly jumped in and pressed my hips and stewarded our birth as best she could.
In my hospital notes, the midwife wrote: “Patient continues with really great handling of contraction work balanced with muscle release.” I feel really proud of that.
Around 6pm, Inge checked me and said that though I was fully open, the baby still hadn’t moved down into the birth canal. Since so much time had passed (nobody directly said this, but I knew I was on a clock), she suggested we begin pushing now instead of waiting for my body to get there on its own.
Clear as day, I remember thinking: “No, this is wrong. There’s no way this will lead anywhere good. Obviously, my body is still not ready. My baby is still not ready. We are about to continue to force something that’s not ready.”
But again, I felt paralyzed by hospital policy. I had no choice but to ride out this train until we reached the end.
By this point, it should come as no surprise that my contractions began weakening after awhile off the drip. Our spa party atmosphere petered out along with my progress. To refresh the energy in the room and prep for pushing, Inge suggested we swap our classical tunes for something more upbeat.
On went the “Have a Great Day” playlist from Spotify, and I sang along – loudly – giving the exact amount of f&#*s you’d expect an overripe pregnant person on her third day of labor to give. Elton John, Bill Withers, Queen, Stevie Wonder, Hall & Oates, and The Supremes carried me into this next stage of labor. I thank them for their service.
On the medical front, the Pitocin had to be ramped up again. This posed a space issue, as my IV hand was now occupied by antibiotics. So, in went another needle (several times) on the opposite hand. The midwife also suggested fading out my epidural so that I could feel where to push.
If you’re keeping track, my needle-phobic self now has one IV in my left hand, one IV in my right hand, and an epidural in my back. If nothing else, surely this would be the experience to finally rid me of my fear of needles.
Speaking of situations that looked 180 degrees different from what I had imagined: I was laying flat on my back. I’d watched many videos of wild animals birthing on all fours, adopted Ina May’s directive to work with gravity, and spent months of my pregnancy practicing breathing down my baby in various vertical positions.
With the little agency that remained, I asked Inge if we could try different positions for pushing. She and Bjarke rolled me from one side where I pushed through a few contractions to the other side, then on all fours. I found a good groove in wrapping my rebozo scarf around the head of the bed, twisting it around my wrists, and leaning backwards as I pushed.
Even with an eased-up epidural, I felt nothing. I had no connection to what was happening – if anything at all – in my bottom half. I continued pushing with no sense of progress or confidence that I was doing it right.
Now I found myself sunny side up, legs in the air, curling up to gather power from a position that didn’t lend itself well, and being coached by Bjarke and the midwife (yet another birth preference bit the dust). At some point, in the midst of the current onslaught of intensified Pitocin contractions, Inge’s shift ended and I got a new midwife. It was almost comical, as I met Anna-Kirstine through my lofted legs.
I remember Anna-Kirstine’s presence by the high pitched “C’mon, c’mon, c’mon, c’mon!” with which she coached each push. It felt equal parts like she’d gone through these same motions a million times, and like she truly saw and believed in me in that moment.
I recall asking her to give me anything, grasping for feedback on whether all this energy I was expending was doing anything at all. She dodged my pleas, very likely because there was no progress to report. The lack of response only caused me to search more frantically for any sign that we were getting somewhere. I so desperately wanted to hear “I can see the head!” “Oh, your baby has so much hair! or “The baby’s RIGHT there!” but I heard none of that, and this absence convinced me we were going nowhere.
By now, I’d been pushing for an hour, and that triggered a consultation with the obstetrician on shift.
A stranger who appeared at the seasoned end of her career walked in and observed a few pushes, in which she pointed up toward the ceiling and told me to aim my push there. It felt as confusing as it sounds.
Unimpressed, she walked up to my head and told me I wasn’t going to push my baby out without help. She stated her recommendation: attach a vacuum suction cup to my baby’s head to pull them through the birth canal. The hundreds of diverse birth stories I’d consumed paid off in this moment, because I knew what to ask. “How many tries do I get to push my baby out with the vacuum?” I asked. “Three, and then it’s a c-section,” she said.
My eyes grew wide and I felt panic lump in my throat. I’d reached the dead end. I looked at Bjarke, desperately searching his face for any other option. But we were long out of them. The woman glared at me, waiting for an answer. I froze.
The woman spun around, huffed out of the room, and shouted to the staff, “I don’t have time to wait around. Call me when she’s ready.”
[As I write this, it strikes me how much this sense of time contrasts with the relationship Lene had with time. With Lene, she stretched 45 minutes into feeling like hours of a much needed break. With the doctor, I felt like my rational decision-making thoughts were doing 100mph on the highway and rammed into a 15-car pile-up.]
Once the stranger left, Anna-Kirstine came up to me and said, “This obstetrician has delivered many, many babies. She’s very talented, and if anyone can get your baby out, it’s her.”
With those words, we accepted. Though I hated the thought of a vacuum on my baby’s head, there was not much else to do.
In an instant, our room filled with personnel. The people moved briskly about, each prepping for their role.
My contractions were strong and almost on top of each other. It all got really intense, really quickly, and I yelled, “I JUST WANT THIS TO BE OVER!” In that moment, I honestly thought it never would be – that after more than 42 weeks of pregnancy and 48 hours of labor, I still would not meet my baby.
I don’t know how he was able to think of it, but seconds before I needed to push my baby out, Bjarke called our doula Karina. “We need a pep talk right now,” he told her as he abruptly transported her via video from her home into our hospital room filled with medical personnel. Bjarke placed the phone with her in it on the metal frame holding my artificial oxytocin drip. From that perch, Karina reminded me of the thousand-years legacy of birth, of all the women who had gone before me, of my very own great-grandmother.
Of all the ways I wanted to feel right now: like crying, like rolling over and giving up, like back-pedaling the heck out of the situation – the only option available was to take a deep breath, reach deep into my last-resort energy reserves, and put my damn game face on.
“What’s the best thing I can do with my right leg?” I inquired, as the staff pulled out all sorts of gadgets to position my body optimally for them. My midwife later told me that it was this question that signaled to the room that I was still in it – that I was going to push this baby out.
I kept one ear on Karina’s voice and one ear on the doctors and midwives who were coaching me on how to push in conjunction with the vacuum. Bjarke narrated the medical staff’s movements for me and provided me comfort and cold rags. The blue painted words of affirmation flashed into my head, and I channelled all of my ‘Trust’ and ‘Surrendered’ to everyone in that room.
*Fun fact: about half of those ‘everyones’ in the room were part my personal Perineum Protection Army. They hovered over my bottom, pressing what I’d guess were warm compresses and oils onto my skin to prevent tearing. I bow deeply to them.*
With the next contraction, I inhaled and bore down with everything I had, and they attached the vacuum cup to my baby’s head.
With the second breath, I pushed again, and they pulled out the head.
With the third breath, I inhaled and began to push, but was immediately met with “STOP!” This was a rest breath, apparently, as they were turning Baby’s shoulders so their body could pass through my pelvis.
With the fourth breath, they pulled the baby all the way out.
My baby was hoisted up in the air, back first, toward my searching hands. From that view, I saw that my baby was a boy. A Viggo. He was long and floppy and shiny and blue. I held him to the skin of my chest and rubbed him until he came to life.
The sharpest emotions of that moment were disbelief and immense relief. Completely drained of energy, I remember feeling duller than I was ‘supposed to.’ I kept scanning my body and brain for that elated love everyone swoons about, but I came up empty. There was nothing left – I’d expelled every ounce of life in bringing Viggo to this side of my belly.
It was 9:04pm, just 57 short hours after I checked into the hospital on Friday.
He came out with his fist up by his face. His vital signs and Apgar score couldn’t have been better. He had weathered the birth with strength, as I intuitively knew he would. There was never a moment I doubted him – our well-baked babe born 16 days beyond his due date. He wanted to be good and ready, and I was so happy I’d fought for him to have that extra time.
As the additional hospital personnel turned to file out of the room, I looked as many of them in the eyes as possible and said, “Thank you. Thank you. Thank you.” I was unbelievably grateful to be done.
In the quiet moments after I was wheeled into the recovery room, I checked my messages and found one from our doula. During the hustle and bustle between those last moments of birth and our first moments as a family, she’d inadvertently taken a screenshot. So there we had it. A grainy, low-res picture of the moment Viggo was placed on my chest, my sweaty hair pulled back with a piece of hospital gauze my 6th midwife had fashioned into a scrunchie, Bjarke looking at me with wet eyes as he released the tension that had built up, and our doula, a little video rectangle witnessing us in our transition.
All the pieces of the puzzle were there, they were just not put together in the way I’d envisioned at all. Some of the pieces were sliced up, missing colors, upside down, jammed into a hole that didn’t quite fit. But so it was. Complete in its own, messy way.
He was here. I couldn’t believe it. He was here.
The End of The Beginning
In the name of carrying the story beyond the apex moment – as if all is wrapped up with a neat bow – I’m going to keep it real and share what happened after birth.
First, the placenta. Almost immediately after Viggo emerged from my body, my midwife Anna-Kirstine asked if I wanted an injection of Pitocin in my thigh to speed up the delivery of the placenta. I declined, and 30 short minutes after birth, my placenta followed. It is much easier to push a boneless, shapeshifting blob out of a birth canal than a baby.
I have no recollection of this, but apparently the obstetrician who pulled Viggo out came back to help with the placenta. After that was finished, she walked around to my head to tell me that 15% of first-time birthers need the vacuum, and not all manage to push their babies out – especially after a very long labor. Our short relationship was tenuous, and I appreciated her offering me this validation.
Anna-Kirstine lifted up the vibrantly red organ and showed us the tree of life – all the veins that delivered the oxygen and nutrition which built my Viggo. In place of amazement at the human body, I felt anger bubble up instead. Looking at the organ, I was reminded of the obstetrician from three days before who told me I was low on amniotic fluid and my placenta was aging. Her words set us on the course for this long induction. I said kind of sassy, “Doesn’t look like a failing placenta, does it?” (Endless gratitude to the midwives who absorb emotion that needs to be released.)
With Viggo still on my chest, and me still riding the disbelief that he was actually here – that I actually had a son, and that I was actually a mom – Anna-Kirstine and a second midwife assessed my need for stitches. I had three tears. Second degree. Could be better, could be worse. I didn’t care at that point. The second midwife injected the area with Novocain (a few more needles to add to my collection) and sewed me up, kindly reassuring me that she was taking the utmost care in putting me back together.
Once the midwife finished stitching, I handed Viggo to Bjarke to hold for the first time. Bjarke had worn a snap-down shirt for exactly this purpose; he ripped open the snaps and pulled Viggo in against his skin.
First moments holding our son.
As the Pitocin and whatever natural oxytocin had been released wore off, I could hardly keep my eyes open. Perfect timing, as a woman walked in to request our participation in COVID-19 research, and with it, read us a long letter of legalese. She received Bjarke’s consent to a swab and a blood prick. I was a hearty ‘yes’ to the swab and a hard ‘no’ on more needles. They’d collected some of Viggo’s cord blood, which we signed off on, too.
In this twilight zone state, I have a fuzzy memory of our homemade cake decorated with Danish flags, per birthday tradition here. We transferred to the recovery room, and this cake, untouched, was wheeled with us.
In the new room, we tried to offer cake to the midwives and staff for a shared moment of celebration, but because of Corona, they had to decline. Bjarke and I each ate a slice, of which I have no recollection.
Somewhere around midnight, Anna-Kirstine, our ultimate midwife, came in to debrief the birth a bit. She commended me for my endurance and determination up until the end. She told me how much she believed in me when she’d first walked into the birthing room. She also knew it had been a saga, and she gently reminded me that the hospital offers a post-birth discussion for those who need more time and space to process their birth.
Because of Corona, the hospital was trying to send parents home as soon as possible. Since I’d wanted to birth at home anyway, I was itching to get back. There were two things the staff needed to see for our release: 1) that I could pee, and 2) that Viggo could latch onto the breast. I checked #1 off the list, and then all we needed was #2.
I pulled Viggo’s head to my breast and positioned him the way I’d researched in books. He stayed sleeping. In the commotion right after birth, while Viggo briefly had his eyes open, I’d forgotten to try for a latch. Now, it seemed, we both were much too exhausted. That meant we weren’t going home – at least not until Viggo perked up and could try again.
Too tired to breastfeed. Both of us.
Any remaining hopes for a swift return home were dashed when Anna-Kirstine came in to inform us that the hospital wanted to monitor Viggo’s blood and temperature for the next 24 hours. He was born 32 hours after my water broke, which meant there was higher risk for infection, and the last dose of antibiotics I’d received via IV was five hours before birth instead of their recommended four.
This was pretty rough news to receive, because it meant that mere hours after the monumental event of becoming a family of three, we’d be separated; Bjarke was not allowed to stay, due to COVID policy. Our consolation prize was the brief window of visiting ‘hours’ from 3-4:30pm the next day.
A porter came to transfer Viggo and me to our new room around 2am. He gestured to Bjarke that he needed help pushing a bassinet for Viggo (pretty sure he didn’t really need it, but he noticed how we clung to each other, not even close to ready to part ways).
Bjarke got us situated, thinking of every small detail to set me up for success, and finally left the hospital at 3:30am. I looked over at Viggo and felt overwhelmed by the heightened responsibility of caring for him alone. I slept lightly, my eyes flying open every few hours to check on Viggo’s breathing.
When morning broke, our new family of three woke up in two different places. It was hard for Bjarke, who wanted to celebrate Viggo but found himself alone. It was hard for me, who really needed extra help (the nurses had good intentions but also had to care for all the other partner-less postpartum people confined to their rooms, so they were spread thin.)
Bjarke’s last look before leaving Viggo on the first night we became a family.
A good morning greeting sent to Bjarke, who was sleeping alone at home.
I was wholly unprepared for how my body would feel the day after giving birth. It was as if I’d run two marathons and then got hit by a truck. Everything ached. The muscles I tensed up during every single contraction? Yep, those were on fire. The stitched up lacerations on my still-swollen nether regions? Lets just say the bidet was my best friend. Sitting was unbearable. Walking was performed at a snail’s pace. I counted down the minutes until Bjarke showed up and could take over the care of Viggo.
At 3pm sharp, Bjarke resumed his rightful place with us and ‘forgot’ to go home until midnight. We’d gotten our hopes up for a release that evening, but the numbers from Viggo’s blood test (so not fun!) did not put us totally in the clear. Another solo night for me, another lonely morning for Bjarke.
Bjarke returned again the next day at 3pm, and again, ‘forgot’ to go home. Around 8pm, a doctor came in to do a physical assessment, so Viggo wasn’t just a number from a blood test. He thought Viggo looked great and was comfortable sending us home (he knew we were beyond ready to get back) with the promise that we’d return the following morning for a final blood test.
We called Bjarke’s mom and stepdad with the news and told them to meet us at our apartment as the welcoming party. They swooned over Viggo, we toasted champagne, and we each had a slice of my well-traveled birthday cake. This time, I remember eating it.
After my in-laws shuffled out the door, we went to bed as a family – exhausted, exhilarated, nervous, unsure, but most of all, HOME.
Thank you for reading and witnessing my experience. In the process of writing the story, I had several thoughts that didn’t find a place in the narrative. I’ll be wrapping that all into a Bonus Part 4 Reflection, so check back soon.
I inhaled birth stories for years before I experienced my own, and I feel intensely drawn to pay it forward by sharing my own. If this has sparked any questions, thoughts, or stories, please reach out. If you feel compelled to pass it onto others, please do.