A delivery I didn’t plan for — but will never forget.
My First Two Births
My first two babies were born vaginally and — all things considered — both labors were relatively uncomplicated.
With my first, my water broke in great fashion — a big gush followed by more waves. Labor kicked in around 4 PM with back pain that had me in bed most of the evening. I took a hot shower, then used a trick I’d learned in my teenage migraine years: I forced myself to sleep. It worked. I dozed off for a few hours and woke up ready. My son was born at 1:48 AM after just three pushes. I was very ready when they told me to go. His head was shaped like a soup can from sitting so low for so long, and yes, I tore a little. But it was a natural birth, and it was worth every moment. That first hour — skin to skin, watching him find his way to nurse — was magic.
With my second, it started quietly. I wasn’t sure if I’d wet myself or if my water had broken. My mother-in-law drove me to the hospital. Sure enough, it had broken, but I wasn’t feeling any contractions. I spent the day on a low dose of Pitocin, feeling great — even had dinner with my husband. The nurse wasn’t thrilled, but I felt totally fine. Then at 9:30 PM, everything changed. The pain hit hard and fast. I remember thinking, Why did I do this again? But by 11:58 PM, she was here. Two pushes. My doctor didn’t even make it — the nurse caught her. Her head was perfectly round, like a C-section baby. Once again, the golden hour was quiet, beautiful, and perfect.
Both births were fast once active labor started. I never really felt much until things were already moving. My first was born a week after his due date; my second came 12 days early.
🕰 Eleven Years Later
Then came baby number three — eleven and a half years later.
I woke at 5 AM feeling just slightly off. Nothing alarming — just not quite right. I got up, and when I climbed back into bed, I felt it: my water breaking. I jumped up to save the freshly washed sheets — and yes, it was full-on, movie-scene style.
After a shower and a quick pack-up, we headed to the hospital. Once admitted, I was hooked up to the monitors. I was having big contractions — but, as usual, I couldn’t feel them. Everything seemed to be going to plan.
Until it wasn’t.
🩺 The Shift
Around midday, things started to change. My baby wasn’t progressing, and his heart rate — while steady — was too steady. A flat line on the monitor isn’t a good sign in labor. You want variability — peaks and dips that show the baby is handling contractions well.
The team tried everything to “wake him up.” He responded, but not much. Then the decelerations started — drops in heart rate after contractions. My doctor came in and said it was time to seriously consider a C-section.
😢 Letting Go
I didn’t want a C-section.
This was my last baby. And as strange as it sounds, I was excited to feel labor again. I knew it would hurt — it always does — but there’s something in that pain that brings the most amazing reward. The focus. The release. The moment you pull your baby to your chest and everything else fades.
I cried. I wanted to say no.
But my doctor wasn’t just popping in. She had canceled her clinic for the rest of the day. She wasn’t even on call. She had followed my case, cleared her schedule, and requested the OR. She didn’t make this decision lightly.
And something in me knew it mattered.
So I said yes.
🔒 In the OR
I hadn’t researched cesareans beyond a few bullet points in my birth plan. I didn’t expect to be here.
They placed the epidural and everything moved quickly. I didn’t feel any pain — but I felt everything else: the pulling, the pressure, the shifts inside my body. I even felt the moment he came out — like the way a “pop” would feel if it happened deep inside.
They strapped down one arm and both legs. Protocol. But awful, I didn’t expect that. Not physically — emotionally. That level of vulnerability, of powerlessness… it shook me.
I remember thinking, I can still kind of feel my feet. Could I just get up and run?
No, of course not. I looked at my husband and when I felt like that would make me cry more I resorted to staring at the ceiling.
👶 He Was Here
And then I heard him cry.
The drape dropped just enough for me to see his face. He was beautiful. And fine.
The drape went back up, and they brought him to me. He latched just like the others had — immediately and fiercely — and stayed there through the rest of the surgery.
One nurse asked if I wanted her to take him for a minute. Before I could say a word, my husband said, “I don’t think she’ll go for that.” He was right. I needed him where he was.
There wasn’t much space, so my husband had to steady him on my chest. I don’t remember when they unstrapped my arms. I only remember holding my baby on the way back to the room, through the bed transfer, through it all.
🧬 What They Found
The cesarean was absolutely necessary.
My baby had two true knots in his umbilical cord. One is rare. Two is nearly unheard of. He had a long cord, and until labor began, everything had been perfect.
There was more.
They found a fibroid on my uterus. It had to be removed — they couldn’t work around it to close me. It changed the placement of my incision and required them to cut through muscle tissue — not the ideal spot, but the only safe one.
My uterus was thicker than normal, and they had to cut through multiple layers. I ended up with four layers of sutures.
💔 Quiet Grief and Erin x 3
There was another ache I hadn’t expected: I couldn’t share this moment with my mom.
With my first two, she came shortly after they were born — always one of the first faces I saw. She stayed with us for weeks afterward, helping in all the ways only a mom can. We had always chosen to have just my husband and I in the room — and that felt right — but knowing she was nearby brought comfort I didn’t know I’d miss so much.
With my first, my mother-in-law waited all night in the hospital. With this birth, my stepmother-in-law was with us when the doctor said “C-section,” and she and my father-in-law waited in the hospital through the entire procedure.
I was surrounded by love. But still — I missed my mom.
And then, in the operating room, something strange happened.
My nurse? Erin.
The baby’s nurse? Erin.
Another support person in the room? Erin.
Three Erins.
It felt like more than coincidence — like I was still being cared for, still being watched over, even when I couldn’t see it.
The Hardest Walk
Within 12 hours, they had me up to walk.
It was the hardest walk of my life. I made it through determination more than strength. I stood in front of the bathroom mirror for a few minutes before realizing: I’m going to pass out if I don’t get back to bed.
Later that day, I got a bag of iron and a B12 shot, and another round just a few days later.
My hemoglobin was 7.4 — barely above the transfusion line.
This wasn’t the birth I planned.
But it was the birth that kept my son safe.
It was harder. It was longer. It was more clinical. But it was still sacred.
If you’re facing a cesarean — planned or not — I hope this reminds you:
You are strong.
You are still the one who brought your baby into the world.
You can grieve what you lost and still honor what you gained.
Both are true.
Both matter.
From Here…
If this story resonated, you might also like:
→ C-Section Recovery Essentials Checklist
→ The 5-5-5 Rule for Postpartum: What I Planned vs. What Happened
→ The Partner’s Hospital Bag: What We Actually Used
✍️ Author’s Note
I talked through this story so many times with my husband. It’s how I process — walking through each step, replaying it in detail. But sharing it beyond that has felt harder. Sometimes, it seems like you’re taking too long or saying too much, especially when people around you have moved on.
But if you’ve ever felt like your birth story is stuck inside you — needing to be unpacked slowly, even if the world calls it common — I want you to know: you’re not alone.
If you want to share your story in the comments, I would love to hear it. Not to fix it. Not to give advice. Just to witness it. Because this isn’t just something that happens every day — it’s something that happened to you. And that makes it profound.
Don’t be afraid to keep sharing it with the people who love you. And if they seem like they’ve heard it all — but you’re still stuck on it — that’s okay too.
This Wilderness Our Home 
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