Through the Valley

*possible trigger warning* *talks of labor and delivery and details pertaining to L&D*

“Are you there, God? It’s me—”

Another contraction rolled through my abdomen, squeezing all the breath from my lungs. The intense, inescapable pressure in my stomach forced my eyes to shut and my jaw to clench. I rocked back and forth on my hands and knees, trying to work with the contraction rather than against it, but my strength—both physical and mental—was quickly draining away. My husband’s hands firmly squeezed my hips to counteract the contraction’s force, and while it did help to an extent, his own strength had begun to wane as well. It had been eighteen hours—eighteen hours of arduous labor, pushing both myself and my husband to our limits.

As the crushing pressure of the contraction came to an end, an achy sensation quickly replaced it, denying me any physical relief. I began again, “God, are you there?” Still on my knees, I lowered my chest and face onto one of the bed’s pillows. “Please, God. Please help me,” I cried out. The pillow muffled my plea, making it more of a whisper than anything. My face still pressed into the pillow, I felt my husband’s hands move from my hips to my lower back, gently stroking the strained muscles. My doula and the midwives who were monitoring my labor and delivery conversed quietly with one another, likely about the concerning progress of my labor.

It had begun at 7 p.m. the night before. The day had gone by as usual—breakfast, laundry, an unplanned nap on the couch, some errands, dinner with my husband. We were finishing our night with a brownie (my latest pregnancy craving) and some TV. I had read multiple times that labor began with spaced-out, unpredictable contractions—ten minutes here, twenty minutes there. That, unfortunately, had not been the case for me. From the beginning, the excruciating contractions were five minutes apart, lasting a minute each. Now, nearing the end of labor, they were back-to-back. I braced myself for the next contraction as the all-too-familiar pressure wrapped itself around my abdomen. I pressed my face hard into the pillow, moaning and crying out, too preoccupied to care how loud I was. I faintly heard one of the midwives instruct me to push, so I did. With every following contraction, I tried to push—in different positions and with different intensities—but to my dismay, nothing seemed to be working.

I must be doing this wrong, I thought. Weren’t mothers supposed to instinctively know how to give birth? I felt defeated. All the pregnancy books and articles on labor and delivery never mentioned the possibility of feeling like a failure, so why did I?

Four hours of unsuccessful pushing left me panting and sweating with exertion. I felt myself begin to panic. Why won’t my baby come out? While my doula and the midwives had perfected their unbothered, neutral faces, my husband was not as successful. Fear covered every inch of his face—his eyebrows knitted together, forehead slick with sweat, and lips pressed into a thin line. He hadn’t spoken—at least I don’t think he had—in the last twenty-two hours. If I were in his position, I suppose I wouldn’t know what to say, either. I briefly saw his hands tremble as they reached down and up around my shoulders to support me as my muscles tightened once more.

I need this to be over. I can’t keep going, I thought wearily. I knew neither myself nor my baby was in actual danger, but my panic rose to an all-time high due to the sheer exhaustion and pain I had endured, and I began pleading to God once more.

“Please God, please God, please God, help me!” I cried out. My head began to spin, and blood rushed through my ears; I was hyperventilating.

“Alanna.” Her voice was direct and sharp, and my eyes shot open to my doula staring at me. She grabbed hold of my hand and squeezed it. “He heard you. YOU have to accept His help.” She did not sound irritable or annoyed, nor insensitive either. She was simply stating the truth. And she was right.

At that moment of realization and acceptance, I felt myself become grounded and aware of my surroundings; The cold tile under my feet, the soft scent of peppermint diffused in the air. My fear dissipated and, oddly enough, frustration took its place—anger, even. Not with God, not with my doula, but with myself. Why had it taken me so long to realize that God had been alongside me this whole time and that I was the one in control of this birth? And I was tired of seeing my husband look so scared. Why was he scared? He’s not the one pushing out a whole-ass baby! (Of course, when my mind cleared and we rehashed the details of that night, I was able to sympathize with my husband a bit better.) Regardless, I missed his usual easy-going, goofy self, and the air of optimism he always carried.

Enough was enough.

With the next contraction, I abandoned all thoughts of the “right” or “wrong” ways to give birth and, drawing energy from my anger and frustration, pushed with all my might.

“Push!”

“I see his head!”

“He has hair!” “One more push!”

I gave it everything – every ounce of anger, fear, and love. And then – he was there.

• • •

Not the pain easing. Not the sensation of him passing through. Just sudden, shocking weight against my chest. It was almost like he just appeared in my arms—white, wrinkly, and wet. My arms wrapped around him without thinking, and I held onto him tightly, as though he would disappear at any moment. The midwives immediately jumped into action, preparing the bed and medical equipment necessary to check on me and my baby. My husband was sobbing and shaking, and I wasn’t sure if it was due to happiness or relief. Maybe it was both.

I looked down at the little naked baby in my arms. He wasn’t crying anymore, but instead was observing the room around him with wide, dark eyes. My own eyes were wide with shock. He was here. Really here. He was now a soft pink and surprisingly clean, considering the amount of blood and bodily fluids around me. We were quickly shuffled to the bed to be assessed for any complications and so that I could finally, finally, rest. My doula and the midwives chattered happily as they went about their duties and family members began to trickle into the room.

I remember seeing happy faces and tears of joy, but nothing else stuck with me. I couldn’t process the words being spoken to me or around me, and time felt like it had completely stopped. I felt detached from reality, and the only thing keeping me present was my son, warm and asleep on my chest. I think it was God’s way of protecting me from distractions that would disrupt that special moment—the moment I had been waiting for thirty-nine weeks, three days, and twenty-two hours.

And as my son’s small hand wrapped around my finger, I knew I would do it all over again in a heartbeat. And this time, I wouldn’t doubt if God were there for me. I would have faith that if I asked for His help, He would provide it—and all I had to do was accept it.