Caspian Uriel: a birth story

part II of II

This is part II of a two-part essay. Read part I here.

Almost immediately when we walked into the delivery room, I started crying.

I told my midwife, Jenda, that I didn’t know why I was so freaked out, but I was kind of lying. I was freaked out because I didn’t feel ready at all to have a baby. Oh sure, I was ready to HAVE the baby. But by no means was this my idea of an optimal day of labor. I started out with only 3 hours of fitful sleep, then spent basically the whole morning until around 2pm walking to get my contractions going. Physically I was exhausted. Mentally, I felt my resolve was paper-thin.

Jenda let me cry for a minute. Then she said, “you knew if you came here we’d make you have a baby!” We all laughed a little. “But we’re so excited for you!” Jenda said. I didn’t feel such pure excitement—I just felt like puking—but it was nice to hear.

We spent about an hour monitoring baby’s heartbeat along with my contractions. Jenda had me and Zac lie down on the luxurious queen-size hospital bed so he could hold me while my contractions got steadier.

Last time I’d done this, I mainly controlled my breathing by doing “horse lips” (or as we call them in the choral community, lip trills), but this time it didn’t feel right. I wanted to do something that would center my mind as well as my breathing. If you know you know, singing is an excellent way to manage and control one’s air flow. So I decided to sing through each contraction.

My children love listening to the scripture songs by Slugs and Bugs, and I have to say, the Sing the Bible albums have become a favorite of mine as well. I love how they handle God’s word with reverence and humor and actual good songwriting, and both I and my kids have committed a good amount of scripture to memory this way, including a favorite passage of mine from Colossians 1:

He is the image of the invisible God, the firstborn of all creation. For by him all things were created, in heaven and on earth, visible and invisible, whether thrones or dominions or rulers or authorities—all things were created through him and for him. And he is before all things, and in him all things hold together. And he is the head of the body, the church. He is the beginning, the firstborn from the dead, that in everything he might be preeminent. For in him all the fullness of God was pleased to dwell, and through him to reconcile to himself all things, whether on earth or in heaven, making peace by the blood of his cross. (Col. 1:15-20)

This is the song that carried me through that first hour or so of contractions, until it got too hard to form words and the song continued to play in my head. The truth of it resonated deeply with me—Jesus as the thread connecting my experience to His eternal promise, the foundation of reality that would hold firm even against waves of pain and fatigue.

The contractions came more steadily now, though still a couple minutes apart. Jenda wondered at the fact that my dilation was progressing so well with how spread out the contractions were. But I knew it was God’s gift to me, some peace and almost even rest, while my body prepared for the hardest part.

After transitioning to sit on a birthing ball for a little while, Jenda suggested breaking my water. “We could let it happen on its own, but you’d probably be walking the halls for a few hours that way,” she said. I told her to go for it—I wanted to get it over with. With a little external help, my water broke easily, and Zac and I were sent to the hallway for our next mission. Jenda promised to have the birthing tub ready for me when it was time, and I thought it couldn’t come soon enough.

I don’t know how long we walked. Probably about half an hour, and it was excruciating. Since breaking my water, the contractions were coming almost on top of each other. But I was happy at least to be allowed movement during this part, since with my last baby I’d spent the last hour of labor lying on my side, trying to get him to turn face-up (he refused—read the rest of that story here). As I walked I held on to Zac’s arm. He talked my ear off about Pokémon lore, some background noise I appreciated. I could hardly speak even single syllables at this point. I felt the baby moving steadily downward, and remembered Jenda joking at me on our way into the hallway, “This jumpsuit you’re wearing has so much room in the pants you could probably deliver in the hallway!” I did not want to deliver in the hallway. But I determined to set my jaw and walk as long as I possibly could. Once I returned to that room, I wanted it to be go time.

As I headed back through the delivery room doors, I could almost feel the baby crowning, but of course I couldn’t articulate this. I made some garbled noise at Jenda as I hurried to get the jumpsuit off. I could hear the bath running, like the call of a siren.

Let me tell you, the relief of that hot bath was unlike anything I’ve ever felt before. I sank right into the water and felt the pain almost disappear. For probably two minutes I sat there breathing, trying to just be present in the moment—I knew the hardest part was minutes away. I said nothing, just breathed and watched my husband, Jenda, and the excellent nurse whose name I’ve forgotten (I think it started with a K, like all nurses) gather around me. Jenda encouraged me to lie on my side as the contractions returned, which would hopefully signal the baby to keep moving in the right direction. I sensed he’d emerge soon, but I was almost scared to say it. Instead I asked Jenda when I’d know it was time. “Oh, you’ll know,” she said. “Just because you said that, I’m going to run over here and grab some towels, just so we’re ready if anything happens.”

She had barely reentered the bathroom when I reared up out of the water screaming, “he’s coming! Help! Help me!” It was like my whole body had honed in on this one job, to get the baby out. The pain was acute. I could feel his head about to emerge.

Had it felt this way the last time? I’m sure it had, but it being my first time I was so blinded by the intensity that I couldn’t even pinpoint sensations. This time, I was still inside my head. My eyes were open. I looked around the room as I screamed, trying not to lose it. Jenda helped me brace myself against the side of the tub, then checked and told me it was safe to push. I kept screaming as they told me I was okay, I was safe, to be gentle, and I didn’t stop screaming until I heard my husband’s voice in my head, telling me to remember my screamo training (ha).

Then I was able to channel my anguish into more controlled, guttural sounds. I pushed without regard for my body. Afterward, the nurse told me it only seemed like I’d pushed for ten seconds. Jenda said it was like one long contraction, connected by a tiny dip in which she told me to pause before pushing the baby out in one go. “On the next push, he’s coming out,” she said. The certainty in her voice gave me what I needed to calm myself. “Okay,” I breathed. “Alright.” Then I pushed one more time, and out came Caspian, right into the water.

I reached down for him and sat backward, pulling him onto my chest. Out of his tiny mouth came a squawk. The water was red around us. I heard Jenda say his cord had broken; she had a clamp ready to stop any blood loss. I hadn’t realized, but Caspian’s cord was so short that when I pulled him out of the water, it just snapped. Routinely in a water birth, the water remains mostly clear after delivery—but my cinematic brain had always pictured it like this, so it hadn’t surprised me at all, which I think was for the best.

Jenda and the nurse helped me out of the water and over to the bed. “I feel like I should apologize for screaming like a crazy person,” I said. They both laughed. I’m sure they’re more than used to it. “You went from zero to a hundred,” Jenda said.

It hadn’t felt like that to me, but I knew what she meant. One minute I was sitting silently in the water, the next I was screaming that my baby was on his way out. But I’ve never been one to crack until the very last second. I have to give myself the illusion of toughness, so that maybe when the time comes I can continue to pretend.

In the following hours, I noticed a huge difference between my third delivery and my fourth. Last time, I had been so shocked by the experience that I couldn’t relax for hours afterward. But this time, my body released the fear and tension much more easily. I sat there waiting for the nurses to check Caspian’s oxygen levels, and felt like I was more than okay. Zac never cries, but there were tears in his eyes as he told me he was proud of me.

In the end, I couldn’t have been happier with this birth story. I’m frankly astounded by the number of prayers answered. Not only did I and the baby survive the process, but it was impossibly quick, all things considered (Jenda stated emphatically that had my water broken at home I probably would have delivered in the car, and I don’t know how to feel about that).

I had no tearing. We left the hospital the next day, both of us in great shape. And Caspian is the nicest baby I’ve ever met, a champion among eaters and sleepers.

We named him Caspian Uriel. Caspian, chosen for its literary connections, as well as its meaning, “white,” for purity. Not outer purity, but the deep purity of conviction, tried and tested. Uriel, a Hebrew name meaning “flame of God,” in the hopes that this baby will bear the name of Jesus before others, and follow the path as God illuminates it for him by his Word. We pray that this son will abound in love, wisdom, and faith as we raise him. Thank you, God, for the blessing of Caspian. We already love him so much.

And the words of the Lord are flawless, like silver purified in a crucible, like gold refined seven times. (Ps. 12:6)