How my grandma helped me through labor and delivery

When my midwife asked about how I’d like to deliver my first baby, my knee-jerk response was “I don’t want an epidural.” I was a 37-year-old newlywed and all I could think about was my fear of needles and the societal admiration I would receive if I had an all-natural birth.

Since researching birthing techniques made me anxious, I instead focused on getting an idea of what labor and delivery had been like for women in my family, as I heard this can be one indicator of what to expect for yourself. When I asked my mom about her experience delivering my big brother, she said it was “hard” and the word epidural sounded familiar. She also informed me her mom had all four of her kids via c-section.

Then there was the story about my paternal grandma. She lived on a farm in Appalachia and had her first baby in the 1920s. Grandma Eva was a hearty woman in every way, who was still working on her farm in her ’80s and lived to the age of 107. She was 23 for her first birth and gave birth to her fifth child when she was 45.  In her time, there was no discussion of birth plans or options. The only option was a natural birth at home with the help of family or neighbors. The way the story has been passed down in my family, a couple of days into my grandma’s labor in the loft of her farmhouse her helpers gave up and came downstairs, with one of them making the comment “Leave her alone. She’ll make it but she’ll lose the baby. Barnes girls always lose the first one.” Sometime the next day my grandma came down from the loft with a baby boy in her arms, whom she had to deliver entirely unassisted and alone. 

After hearing those stories, I had a new perspective on my priorities, and societal admiration just didn’t seem that important compared to getting through the experience safely and coming home with a healthy baby in my arms.

I was nervously counting down the days until my due date and the end to answering questions like, when are you due and how are you feeling? Aside from heartburn, physically I felt great. Emotionally, I was done with the whole thing. My due date came and went—nothing happened. 

At 41 weeks I showed up for a non-stress test, which showed the baby was doing well. My midwife informed me the official recommendation for “advanced maternal age” is induction at 41 weeks, but that she would support me going to 42 weeks at the latest. Out of caution, I finally scheduled the induction for 41 weeks and 4 days.

My contractions started around 12 hours after being induced with Misoprostol. I crawled up and down the bed groaning through every contraction. I remember being around five centimeters dilated when I asked the nurse about pain relief options, and she administered some IV drugs. Within minutes I was relaxed enough to walk through the halls with my husband. The nurse informed us these meds would wear off after about an hour, so I used that brief break to plan my next move.

After five hours of pushing, suction and an episiotomy my baby boy was born.

I was so tired from all the angst of the last two weeks of trying to will myself into labor and barely sleeping the night before coming to the hospital because I had been beating myself up about getting induced. The thought of the meds wearing off and jumping right back into that intensity without any more breaks because I needed to show the world I was tough just filled me with dread. 

I knew if I had to have done it with no further assistance, like my grandma did, I would. I thought of her and how much I think she would have loved to have had the luxury of a hospital and medicine. Her harrowing birth story wasn’t on principle, it was just necessitated by her life and resources at the time. Later in life she advocated for appreciating the blessing that medical intervention can be, as she chose a double hip replacement at age 90.

With all this running through my head I turned to my husband and said, “I don’t give a crap. I’m getting the epidural.” My husband gave a huge sigh of relief and assured me that all he wished was for me to do what I truly wanted and to feel good about my choices. 

Thankfully, when the epidural kicked in it brought me immense relief. Still, there was a long road ahead. After five hours of pushing, suction and an episiotomy my baby boy was born. 

I’m incredibly grateful for my supportive husband, my midwife and all the medical staff who helped my baby come into the world safely. After we were home my husband told me that during the delivery he saw in me the strength of my Grandma Eva, which is one of the most meaningful compliments of my life. The decisions my husband and I made aren’t perfect for everyone, but they were right for us. At the end of it all, we are home safe and healthy, which is exactly what my birth plan was.