As soon as I saw that second pink line appear on the pregnancy test, I started picturing my labor and delivery, and I tried imagining the people with me. Sometimes I thought about my sister being there, but then I thought about her difficult schedule. Sometimes I imagined my mother-in-law (whom I love), but then I thought about pooping in front of her (or more realistically, dropping some epic F-bombs) and thought better of it. My mother and my husband were the only consistently viable options.
Throughout my life I’ve seen labor and delivery depicted on television and movies. The woman is always screaming at her partner for putting her in this position in the first place, “You did this to me!” She bellows, while white knuckling through a contraction.
My husband had already experienced his fair share of undeserved blame during our relationship, so I had faith that he would muddle through just fine. And as for my mother—well, I’ve lived through very few pains in my life, both emotional and physical, that didn’t leave me thinking, “I want my mommy.” These were the people that I wanted with me during the most important day of my life, just like I had wanted them by my side every day that had come before, and certainly every day that would come after. The decision practically made itself.
But I never really thought about the fact that they were going to be more than just spectators. They ended up having very important jobs and acted as my proxies (when I couldn’t make choices on my own), were my support system (when I didn’t think I could push even one more time), and were the first friendly faces my newborn saw when I wasn’t able to be there for her.
Sometime during labor, we discovered that my daughter was positioned “sunny-side up,” which is a nice way of saying backwards. She got stuck on my pelvis, and three hours after my OB happily said, “It’s time to start pushing,” I was still pushing.
I ran through the range of emotions: frustration, anger, hopelessness. If my mother and husband did as well, I couldn’t tell. They alternated between holding my legs and wiping my forehead with a damp cloth. When one of them needed to step away, the other one quickly took their place. They took turns so neither of them was too tired, or too scared, to put on a brave face, smile, and tell me that I was doing great and everything would be okay.
Their calm faces and enduring support convinced me that everything really would be okay. They never gave me any hint that there was another option, so I kept on pushing until the doctor told us that both the baby and I were experiencing significant distress and that we required a medical intervention.
When my daughter was finally earthside, gray and unmoving, my mother told my husband to stay with me so she could go watch the NICU team resuscitate her. He remained by my side, holding my hand while the doctor repaired the third-degree tear I’d experienced during the final push.
Once my daughter finally issued that long-awaited cry, my mother came back with tears in her eyes to tell us the baby was OK. Then they once more switched positions so that my husband could meet his daughter for the first time.
For a moment, we were one big happy family. Then, sometime between the last stitch and the moment I finally got to hold my daughter for the first time, I began to hemorrhage. Before I knew it, she was whisked away from me—and into the arms of her father and grandmother—while the doctors and nurses worked to save my life.
Before it was all said and done, I’d lost consciousness, required blood transfusions, and endured a week-long stay in the hospital. It was a terrifying introduction into motherhood, but I couldn’t imagine having anyone else with me while it happened.
My mother and husband kept me going when I wanted to give up and told me that everything was going to be okay even when it didn’t seem like it. Who you choose to have in the delivery room with you on the day you give birth matters. They may just save your life. And they may just keep on saving your life every day that follows.
My mother and husband continued to cheer me on and share their strength when I needed it once I was home, too—when I couldn’t stand up straight and needed someone to bring me the baby to nurse or change, when I was delirious from blood loss and sleep deprivation and was sure I was losing my mind, and even when I needed something as simple as a glass of water—they were still there by my side, telling me that everything was going to be okay. I believed them then, and I believe them now. Most importantly, I don’t believe I could have done any of this without them.