The Fast And The Furious: A Birth Story

This post is part of the online celebration of Baby Week, hosted by Discovery TV. Because what better way to celebrate babies than to relive the terror miraculous experience of giving birth to them?


It was the most awesome experience of my life. It was the most terrifying experience of my life, and it all started while I was eating a fajita.

The first contraction hit at 7:46 pm. I know this, because I checked the time. I was pretty sure that it was just more false labor, but still. One always hopes. So I checked the time, and then went back to eating my fajita.

Ten minutes later another contraction hit. Ow, I said to no one in particular. That hurt.

Was that one different? my husband asked. Is it time?

Probably not. I'll just wait and see.

Eight minutes later I was doubled over. Emilia pulled out her doctor's kit and held the stethoscope to my belly. Baby brother wants to come out now?

I don't know sweetie.

Husband: Should we go in?

I don't know. It might be another false alarm.

Husband: I think we should go in.

I don't know. (*doubles over*)

Husband: Seriously.

Fifteen minutes later we were in the car, no thanks to me. I dawdled, even as the contractions sped up, reluctant to go in to the hospital and face another round of eye-rolling if these were, as I thought, just another bout of bad false contractions. My husband prodded and pushed until I relented and buckled into the passenger seat. We drove away at 8:26pm, just as another bad contraction hit.

And then another.

And another.

We were barely fifteen minutes from home - and still probably some thirty minutes from our downtown hospital - when it became apparent that whatever was happening was happening quickly. Very quickly. Since we'd left home, the contractions had gone from eight minutes or so apart to barely a minute apart to not apart at all. Kyle called 911; 911 patched him through to an ambulance; the ambulance advised that we pull off the highway and wait for them.

Husband: Pull off and wait?

(Me: GAAAAAR-OHMYGOD-GAAAAAR-NOTGOINGTOMAKEIT-GAAAAAR!!!)

(Emilia: WHAT'S MOMMY YELLING 'BOUT DADDY?!)

Husband: I really don't think we have time to stop and wait.

Ambulance Dispatch: We can't chase you down, sir.

Husband: Then I'll just keep driving.

Mad vehicular dashes to hospitals with women in labor are usually played for laughs on film and television. Let me tell you: there is nothing funny about racing toward a hospital that seems to recede ever further into the horizon as you speed forward in excruciating pain, your body completely out of your control, medical disaster ever more imminent with every passing second. Even when the toddler in the back seat starts shouting MOMMY YOU NEED MEDICINE YOU NEED MY TOADSTOOL? it's not funny. It's stone-cold terrifying.

And when your body just starts bearing down and pushing and you cannot stop it and then you're still like ten minutes away from the hospital and the baby starts shoving its way out of your parts and OMG YOU CAN FEEL IT COMING OUT? Then? Your mind kind of snaps.

(So does the mind of your husband, who at this point is simultaneously driving a speeding vehicle with one hand on the horn and the other trying to feel for baby's head between your legs while shouting into his phone-headpiece to someone at the ER that the baby's coming the baby's coming you need to be ready when we get there!)*

We arrived at the hospital at about 9:05pm. At the wrong entrance. Which was locked. Sufficient banging and the luck of some random guy wandering through the lobby got us in, and much shouting from my husband brought the medical team that had been waiting for us running. I was already mid-delivery: the bag of waters was being involuntarily pushed out - intact - and the baby was crowning. Eleven minutes later, at 9:16pm - after much horror-movie-worthy screaming - Jasper was out.

90 minutes from start to finish of active labor. Barely eleven minutes after stepping out of the vehicle. Fourth degree tearing (borderline) requiring on-the-spot surgery which, you know, without epidural or spinal anaesthesia or anything more significant than local anaesthetic and an extra-strength Tylenol? Almost as hair-raising as the near in-vehicle delivery. Almost.

It was terrifying. The most terrifying experience of my life, bar nothing.

But still, still... after all that - there's him. Big and hale and hearty and a joy - an infinite joy - to behold. Worth any measure of terror, worth any measure of pain.

And the best birthday present ever.


Revised and adapted from an original post at Her Bad Mother, 2008.