A Birth Story: 23 Hours, Unmedicated, Natural, Holy

Jesus was at my labor and delivery

If you’re not interested in every juicy detail, feel free to check out the short version of this story here. I understand birth stories can be a bit uninteresting unless you’re pregnant, have been, or want to be. However, if you are interested in reading about needles popping out of my arm, how I annoyed hospital staff, whether or not I pooed, and Roz from Monsters, Inc., keep reading!

I have never experienced anything more orchestrated by the Lord than the birth of Daisy. Were all the prayers for my ideal birth answered? No. But an even greater gift, Jesus made Himself known in more ways than one.

I spent half of my pregnancy studying up on different methods for a successful natural, physiological birth. Hypnobirthing being the main focus. Hypnobirthing is essentially understanding the science, anatomy, and function of a woman’s body during labor and delivery, understanding different medical interventions, when they’re necessary and when they’re not, and learning different techniques for enduring labor such as laboring and birthing positions, how to create the best environment to help labor progress, visualization exercises, breathing techniques, etc.

The day before Daisy’s birth, my husband, Ryan, and I had plans to celebrate his 30th birthday… three and a half weeks early. I was 38 weeks pregnant, and we wanted to ensure that he was celebrated in case we were in the thick of sleepless nights and caring for a newborn on his actual birthday.

Ryan went to the gym, and I sat down in our little plant-filled nook for a quiet time with the Lord. I read my Bible and cracked open a book that I held near and dear for the better part of my nine months of pregnancy. Courageously Expecting: 30 Days of Encouragement for Pregnancy After Loss by Jenny Albers. 30 chapters that I did in fact, not read every day for a month, but made my way through as the trimesters crawled by. I had one chapter left.

Afterwards I talked to Jesus, painfully, as usual, asking for the same old things. That my baby would live, that tragedy would surpass us, that He would help my unbelief, my lack of faith, my fear and worry and anxiety. Miscarriage had shaken up my spirit in the worst way. I took a deep breath and before standing up to put the book back on the shelf said to the Lord, “I wouldn’t be surprised if You make me go into labor now that I finished that.”

The book (and this is important to know, I swear) was a recommendation from a girl I knew from college ministry almost ten years ago. Her name is also Katie. She knew the pains of losing life in the womb, the mental, emotional, physical, spiritual toll it takes on a woman. She had lost two. In my first trimester of pregnancy before most people even knew I was pregnant, we messaged one another about meeting up even though it had been nearly a decade since we had seen one another. And though she still worked in Central Florida, her workdays were long, and she lived at least an hour away on the coast with her husband and babies. As it does, life happened, the holidays rolled around, schedules didn’t align, and the conversation fizzled out. I closed Courageously Expecting and thought of her, a small air of sadness that we never did get to meet up and share our stories, our heartache, and our hope in life after loss.

That same morning, I also finished painting a Bible, the one from my childhood, so ugly and drab you’d think I snatched it from the drawer of a hotel. I painted that Bible like worship unto the Lord, reminding myself of His omniscient presence, in awe that the Creator made us little creators.

Ryan’s request to celebrate his 30th was a pool day at the Disney Polynesian Resort. If you’re a hotel guest, you can use your room key or Magic Band to get into the gated pool, but if you’re a local like us, you just have to wait for a family to be coming or going and act natural. The water was still a little cold since it was February, but the sun was warm. We ate all kinds of food with pineapple on top, and cuddled and hugged and kissed as much as my protruding belly would allow. And when the wind began to chill, we bundled up and watched the sunset on the resort’s little manmade beach. Ryan offered to cook my favorite dinner and we went home giddy and relaxed, chatting as usual about when I might go into labor and our world could change forever.

Disney Polynesian Resort

Around 11:00pm that night we sat on the couch, watching The Office, leftover dinner and dishes scattered across the coffee table. I’d had a horrible chest cold for about two weeks (an unfortunate symptom I hear happens to some women before they go into labor), and my body was thick with mucus. I blew my nose and felt a warm fluid gush out of me. Not a lot, but enough that I told Ryan to pause the show and I ran to the bathroom. My guess was perhaps my pelvic floor, weak from pregnancy, let out some urine. Except I could tell this…wasn’t exactly…urine.

“Is everything okay?” Ryan called out to me from the living room.

“Um…! I think so! But I can’t tell if this is pee or not!” I yelled out.

I sat on the arm of the couch confused about the mystery fluid. It wasn’t a huge release like in the movies, or from what I remember when my mom’s water broke with my baby brother when I was 12 years old, so I didn’t know what to think of it. A small period-like cramp was forming too but I didn’t know if it was related. Pregnancy had presented so many odd curiosities of symptoms. If told me I could pee out a squirrel, I would’ve said, “Welp, that’s pregnancy!”

Ryan suggested we call the on-call provider at our OBGYN office and see what they had to say. The doctor told me to go lay down for ten minutes, stand back up, and call her back to tell her what happened. If it’s amniotic fluid, she said, it will pool up inside of me and come back out from gravity when I stand. I laid down for 15 minutes just to be sure. Ryan’s excitement, or maybe nerves, was starting to grow. And when I stood up, sure enough, I had to change my underwear. I called the OBGYN back.

“Well, time to head to the hospital!” She said.

I was a little disappointed. I had hoped I would go into labor in the daytime, or at least in the middle of the night after a few hours of rest, not after a long day walking around in the sun. I had also hoped my water wouldn’t break at all since the amniotic sac if intact provides a cushion making contractions less painful (so I heard from my months’ worth of research).

“Can I go in the morning?” I asked. “I’d like to sleep and get some rest before heading to the hospital.”

“No, now since the amniotic sac is broken, there’s a risk of infection,” she said. But all my research told me in other countries you can wait 24-48 hours before going to the hospital after your water breaks. And I just showered hours before. What infection was I going get in the next ten hours from being clean in my own home? “And the baby could be pressing on the umbilical cord blocking blood flow. But we won’t know unless you’re at the hospital so we can monitor you.”

“Hmm…,” Now that was something I did not like to hear. Rare, I’m sure, but enough fear implanted in a sentence to make me submit. “Okay,” I sighed, “We’ll head to the hospital.”

The doctor sounded excited and relieved. I’m sure semi- “crunchy” moms like me are not her favorite to negotiate with. Still, I told myself, I’m going to take my sweet time going to the hospital. Unless my contractions are four minutes apart, I won’t even be thinking about time. I told my husband he should shower and clean up dinner and I would finish packing our hospital bag.

My hypnobirthing studies told me to be as relaxed as possible since it helps labor progress and eases the pain or intensity of contractions. Ryan knew this. As my birthing partner, I passed on any and all information I thought he should know. Ryan’s hands were up by his red face, a huge smile begging to crack through. “Are you trying to stay calm?” He asked.

“Yes,” I smiled at him.

“Okay,” he said, “If you’ll just excuse me for a moment.” He walked out of our room and began squealing, laughing, and jumping up and down in the living room.

Those period-like cramps were coming in waves now. Intense enough that I had to sit down and breathe through them, inconveniently so since it was interrupting my packing. I started timing them with an app, and to my surprise each one was coming in four to six minutes apart.

Close to midnight I called one of my best friends Cheyenne, who we agreed would accompany me while I was in labor as my second birthing partner. Her hospital bag had been packed for weeks. With what, at the time, I couldn’t tell you.

“IS IT HAPPENING,” she greeted as soon as she picked up the phone.

“Hey love, what are you up to?” I teased.

“IT IS HAPPENING, ISN’T IT.” Giggling and screaming ensued on the other end of the line.

I assured her that she should go to sleep, get some rest, and meet us in the morning. No point in all three of us staying up all night. We called my husband’s parents and shared in the excitement with them too.

We loaded up the car and started making the 25-minute drive to the hospital. Out of all the hospitals in Central Florida, this one was the most accommodating for natural, unmedicated childbirth. Ideally, I would have loved a waterbirth at home, but the miscarriage had caused too much anxiety, I hate to admit, and I learned that wherever I felt safest to birth would be where I would labor the best. This hospital had one “low intervention” room. No machines, no harsh lights. Just electronic tea candles, orchids, a normal full-sized bed, bathtub, and right on the same floor as all the other delivery rooms. My main desire was a peaceful room to labor in and medical staff within arm’s reach God forbid things went south. When we toured the hospital and this room months before, I fell in love.

Ryan dropped me off at the Emergency Room entrance to park the car and I waddled in, a little excited now, and naturally expecting everyone else to be, too.

The woman at the front desk looked up at me, like Roz from Monsters, Inc.

“What brings you in?” She said.

“Um, my water broke and I’m in labor,” I said with a smile on my face.

She sighed and looked back at her computer screen, “ID and insurance card.”

A man approached me with a wheelchair. At least he looked a little chipper.

“Oh no, that’s okay,” I said. “I can still walk.”

“If you’re in labor, you get the special treatment,” he assured me. So, I sat down and enjoyed the free ride to the Labor and Delivery unit. I asked him if he had any kids, one daughter he said, and Ryan soon appeared, panting and holding our bags.

It was after 2:00 AM in triage. I could feel my contractions growing farther apart, most likely due to the bright fluorescent lights, but they were growing in intensity. It was important to me to not get a cervical exam (AKA, no fingers up my hoo ha) unless I requested it. My “crunchy” studies once again spoke of the dangers of infection, how it can lead to a “cascade of interventions” that could result in unnecessary harm to mama and/or baby, a c-section, and potentially birth trauma. One of our couple friends had experienced this firsthand just months before, so I didn’t see an issue with protecting myself and my baby even if it meant doctors and nurses wouldn’t be able to see how dilated I was. If the baby is coming out, I thought, they’ll know.

Contractions in triage

When the nurse came to check my vitals and ask why we were there, we recalled the night’s events to her.

“Great, we’ll just need to do an exam to see how dilated you are and see if it is amniotic fluid.”

When I politely refused, she politely insisted. I was at a hospital, I reminded myself. Most mamas were not coming in looking for natural, undisturbed childbirth like I was.

I told her again that it was the on-call doctor at my OBGYN office who told me to come in. All the while contractions are causing me to pause, close my eyes, and breathe, before coming back to the conversation.

“I mean,” she said, “it sounds like a good story.”

“Listen,” trying to sound as kind as humanly possible, “I don’t know about you. But I personally,” spreading my hand on my chest, “wouldn’t like to be at the hospital at 2:30 in the morning if I didn’t have to be. I would have preferred to stay home, sleep, and come in the morning.” I smiled, hoping I didn’t sound rude.

She left to get the midwife. I liked her. She was in support of me going au naturale and sensitive to when I needed to breathe through a contraction but informed me that the hospital's (alleged) policy was to run a test to see if it was amniotic fluid before admitting me. That’s a bill we’ll get in the mail later, I thought. I consented. And within the hour that same nurse came up to tell me I could be admitted. I’m sure she was once again thrilled when I refused to have an IV put in.

Ryan: “Show me a face to describe how you feel about them not believing that your water broke.”

“Unless it’s absolutely necessary for my health or the baby’s health, I’d rather not,” I told them. My contractions had already slowed down from the harsh lighting and the stress of defending my water breaking. The last thing I wanted was pain from a needle going into my wrist to slow them down even more.

“But if you start hemorrhaging, we will need an IV to give a blood transfusion.” What do they do in the ER if someone comes in already bleeding out? Sounds like it’s just more convenient for them. And women who labor at home or birthing centers don’t have to get one, do they? So why should I?

“I’d rather wait then,” I said. That’ll hold them off for a while.

“Cheyenne’s in the parking lot,” Ryan said.

“I told her to stay home and get some sleep!”

When they wheeled me to the labor and delivery room, Cheyenne shortly followed, wide awake, dressed in daytime clothes, beaming with excitement. We set up the speaker, linked it to my “Christian Feels” playlist, and got settled. 28 hours of Christian and worship music. We won’t need all that! I thought. Turns out, we actually did.

A little after 7:00 AM, I was sitting on a birthing ball, practicing my hypnobirthing visualizations through each surge, Cheyenne and Ryan taking turns holding my hands, rubbing my back, taking pictures or videos. The midwife came in to tell me her shift was ending and to give us a rundown of what to expect for the rest of the day.

“You know, hypnobirthing births are my favorite,” she said as I worked through a contraction. “Relax your shoulders. It’ll help.”

Cheyenne was trying to get me to eat something, fig newtons, peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, among other snacks she brought. I had no appetite.

“She’s right,” the midwife said. “You’ll need your energy. This is going to take a while.”

The contractions were intense enough that I requested nitrous oxide. Essentially, big tanks of gas that you breathe in from a mask. It’s supposed to help with pain, but honestly, if the pain was an 8 out of 10, it only knocked it down to a 7 for me. If anything, I started inhaling it for the buzz as a distraction. I can only describe it like this. Remember your BC (Before Christ) days back in college when you would go to the restroom at a bar, look yourself dead in the eyes in the mirror as the world quieted down within those 4 little walls, and you’d think, “Oh so that’s how drunk I am.” That’s what the buzz felt like except it would only last a few seconds.

The night nurse left, and the daytime nurse walked into my dimly lit room. I was just coming out of a contraction when she kneeled down beside me.

“Katie?” I said. By God, it was Katie. The Katie, who recommended Courageously Expecting, worked long hours, and lived over an hour away. “I’m so confused. What are you doing here?”

“I work here!” Her presence was filled with elation and nurturance. She told us that she had seen “Kathleen Donohue” on her chart for the day and realized it was me. “If you don’t mind, I’d love to be your nurse for today. I know it can be weird when it’s someone you know, so only if you’re okay with it.”

Absolutely. I introduced her to my husband and friend. “This is crazy,” I said.

“I know. And today is actually my last day. I got a new job over where I live.”

Lord Jesus. How more perfect could His timing be? What are the odds? Living in Central Florida, there are actually many hospitals you can birth at. At least ten, maybe more. But at this hospital, on this day, during Katie’s last shift, the Lord revealed His sovereignty and His nearness.

She wrote “Happy Birthday Daisy!” on the whiteboard, which coincidentally, maybe not so coincidentally, had a picture of daisies in a field on it.

After that, I knew there was nothing to fear. This baby was coming. She was going to be okay. I was going to be okay. Nothing the midwives could say would scare me into an intervention. Don’t ask me how I knew. But the peace from the Holy Spirit washed over me.

So, this is where she works, I thought. No wonder she works long hours. She’s a nurse!

I looked at Ryan and said, “I think that’s a God wink.” Ryan knew how pivotal that book had been in my pregnancy, how I underlined and cried and prayed my way through every page, how much I wanted to meet up with Katie and the disappointment I had that we never got around to it.

“I think so too,” he said, smiling.

The next 12 hours all melt together. Ryan and Cheyenne took turns taking naps on the couch. Hospital staff took food orders and delivered the most tasteless mashed potatoes I’d ever eaten in my life. I was nodding off in between contractions. When I was alert enough, I laid my cards of positive affirmations and bible verses on the bed. The baby was apparently facing the wrong way, so I labored on my hands and knees, face down in hopes she would turn. Every few hours someone would come in trying to convince me to get a cervical check and an IV, and each time I declined.

I tried not to look at the clock, but as the hours went by, it was all too tempting. It was late in the afternoon. I had been in labor for at least 16 hours or so. Why hasn’t she come yet? I was finally curious enough to see how dilated I was, so I requested a check. The new midwife, who I wasn’t totally jazzed about, checked me, bright red blood dripping from her gloves and out of me when she did, and said, “Three centimeters.” I deflated. Seven more to go. Had I not been in this low intervention room, they probably would have tried to induce me, give me pitocin, tell me I was “failing to progress”, but thankfully they didn’t. “The slow six”, they said. Referring to the first six centimeters being the slowest to dilate.

I was still determined to birth the way I had dreamed. I wanted to feel it all. For me, this was the pinnacle of womanhood. Epidurals had only been around for about a hundred years. But childbirth had been around for hundreds of thousands of years. And the human race wasn’t extinct yet. I wanted to be connected to every woman in history who endured natural labor and childbirth. If they could do it, why couldn’t I? I wanted to know the sacrifice of comfort for the sake of love. I wanted to be in tune with my animalistic instincts like I never had before. A little hardcore perhaps, I’ll admit.

Daisy was moving farther down my cervix, and I could feel her. My bladder was being crushed and I was starting to feel the urge to go number two. I constantly walked back and forth from the bathroom to the birthing ball or bed, barely making it to the nitrous oxide machine before the next surge would start. I thought that I would want to labor in the bathtub, but in the moment, the thought of being wet for some reason seemed deeply uncomfortable.

Suddenly, while Cheyenne was sitting with me on the edge of the bed, I felt a great wave of nausea. I beckoned Ryan quickly to hand me the trashcan and I puked ferociously. Cheyenne reached to press the nurse button, but I stopped her.

“No! It’s normal,” I said, panting. This hospital staff seemed like the type to find any excuse to stick me with a needle. I heard plenty of birth stories of women puking during labor, and I didn’t have the energy to argue with a nurse or midwife about it. Instead, I chugged some water and continued on.

I felt bad for Cheyenne and Ryan trapped in this dark room with me all day and nothing to show for it. My throat began to hurt from all my mouth breathing, and they took turns leaving to go find me some hot tea and honey. Exhausted, out of breath, my eyes barely open, I started to roast Ryan in between contractions.

“Do you know this song?” I said, referring to the speaker.

“No, I’ve never heard this one.”

“Yes, you have.”

“No, I haven’t,” he laughed.

“Do you live under a rock?”

I joked to the both of them that I had seen plenty of birthing videos of women laboring completely nude. “So don’t be surprised if I end up naked,” I said.

Katie came in to tell me her shift was ending. It was about 7:00 PM. And it had been 20 hours since my water broke. I was disappointed, hoping she’d be there to see my baby girl come into the world.

“Text me and let me know how it goes, okay?” she said before departing. I thanked her aggressively for serving me so well that day, still in awe of the Lord’s kindness that He would plan Daisy’s birth so accordingly, just to show me His how close He is.

I was starting to feel desperate for this baby to come. And the contractions were worse than ever.

“She’s doing good,” the new night nurse said. “Most women are screaming by this point.” That made me feel a little better.

But shortly afterward I was groaning through the surges, pressing the nitrous oxide mask to my face like my life depended on it. My mind was starting to wander. So, this is why epidurals exist.

I requested another cervical check. Six centimeters. I deflated again. The pain was now near unbearable. I looked at the nurse, knowing my research said that if you start wanting an epidural then you know you’re close to the end, and knowing Ryan agreed to remind me of that fact if I started to ask for one.

“If you want the epidural,” she said, “we’ll have to transfer you to another room since we don’t have any equipment in here.”

I could barely walk a few steps to the bathroom and all our belongings were scattered around the room. I hadn’t slept in almost 36 hours. I was entering into the transition phase (the most intense of them all). Transferring rooms seemed impossible.

Ryan leaned over and whispered to me, “If you really want an epidural, you can get one. But I know you wanted to do this. I believe in you. You’re almost there. I think you can do it without one.” He had been so loving, so present, breathing with me, rubbing my arms and back the whole day. I took the encouragement and prayed that God would deliver the baby soon.

The back labor was worse than my belly. I brought a heating pad in anticipation that would happen knowing I had an anterior facing uterus, and whenever a surge came, I prompted my birthing partners to press it hard against my lower back.

The pain was almost intolerable. My memory from this point on is fuzzy or nonexistent. There were no breaks in between contractions, and I was moaning loudly to get through it. Instead, it felt like one continuous contraction, with not a moment to come up for air.

The midwife came in, assessed me and the baby in some way I can’t recall and said, “Your contractions are too long and it’s causing the baby’s heartrate to be in distress.” Probably because I am in distress. “I know you said you didn’t want an IV unless it was absolutely necessary. Now it is necessary. We need to shorten your contractions to help the baby.”

I still was skeptical, but for the first time that day, it was an intervention offer that made sense. Cheyenne and Ryan though, rose to my defense knowing my birth plan. “But she doesn’t want one. And her veins are small, so everyone always misses.”

“I won’t miss,” the nurse assured us.

With what cognizance I had, I consented but insisted on my arm and not my wrist since it’s less painful. I don’t remember this part, but apparently the nurse missed my vein. My forearm was covered in blood. And she fished in my arm with the needle until I was poked properly. So much for not missing.

Now the pain was unlike anything I had ever known. Perhaps if my water hadn’t broken it would’ve hurt less. Or maybe if I hadn’t been awake for almost two days, was more well rested, and therefore had more strength, it would’ve only been intense and not painful. Or maybe if I hadn’t been so exhausted from being in labor for over 20 hours, I could’ve endured it better but that’s not how this story goes.

I’d heard mamas can be mean and snap on their husbands when they’re in labor. Something I couldn’t imagine myself doing. I leaned into my birthing partners one at a time, wanting them to push against me as I pushed into them. Ryan’s grip wasn’t strong enough for me. And when I leaned into him, he leaned back. And listen, I promise I am a kind wife. We never yell at one another or say harsh things when feelings are hurt or frustrations arise in our relationship. But in this moment, I threw his hand, punched him in the thigh, and said, “Not like that!”

I rolled onto the ground, groaning loudly through the pain. I couldn’t do my visualizations anymore. All I could do was listen to my body. I could feel Daisy so low I took off my underwear. A small part of me hoping my best friend was okay seeing my nether regions. Then, I pooed.

The nurse came in, stood over me and my scared birthing partners, and said with a hand on her hip, “Baby you got to get up off the floor.” And apparently, she left. I’m told Ryan and Cheyenne looked at each other in a panic realizing it was up to them to get me back on the bed.

“No,” I breathed out shaking my head.

My next memory is being on the bed on my knees, an inflated device nearly the size of me to lean forward on, and the sound of people in the room. Cheyenne later told me that the needle that was just put into my arm had popped out and was laying with a nice sprinkle of blood on a pillow. I didn’t notice. But the nurse did and let out an “I told you so” sigh. Apparently, that’s why they want the IV in your wrist.

I didn’t feel ready to push yet, which was my hope to wait for that sensation, but the room was crowded and to my dismay, my people pleaser-ness didn’t want to waste their time. Someone checked me, “Ten centimeters,” they said.

(I think if I’d had a homebirth or was at a birthing center, this whole part would’ve gone way differently, but Lord willing, now I get to use this experience for my next birth.)

They positioned me flat on my back. Ryan and a nurse held my legs. The room urged me to push. Not on my hypnobirthing watch! I got on all fours again and turned my knees inward just like I learned. (It helps the hips and pelvic bones create the most space for baby to pass through. And I am a petite person. I needed all the room down there for baby that I could get.)

A choir of people yelled at me to push. Ryan moved to support me up by my head. Cheyenne did too. And holding me, politely asked the room if just one person could speak. Bless her. I tried to breathe the baby out as my research suggested. But baby wasn’t coming. The midwife yelled over to me to hold my breath as I pushed. I didn’t want to, but that dang people pleaser… I pushed with everything I had left in me.

First push. Nothing.

Second push. Nothing.

They were yelling at me to start pushing again so fast I didn’t even have enough time to catch my breath.

“She’s got a nosebleed!” The new night nurse said, wiping my face with a tissue.

My spirit reached for the Lord. Mind, body, and soul, I had never been so completely and utterly desperate for Him. I was at the end of myself. This, though wordless, was prayer. To translate, my spirit was saying Jesus, I can’t do this. I have no strength left. The pain is too great. I can’t imagine pushing this baby out on my own. I’m desperate for you. God, You have to do it.

9:46 PM. Last push.

“Oh, oh!” The midwife said. A poor crying Daisy came out in one go and landed on the bed. They handed her to me through my legs and I turned over to lay down and put her on my chest. In my arms she instantly stopped crying. Before we ever laid eyes on one another, she knew me, and I knew her.

She looked up at me, blinking her big almond eyes, like mama, her pink skin, like daddy, and moved her mouth revealing the sweetest dimples, like both of us, her big cheeks resting on her chest, taking me in as I took her in. She was so quiet, so calm. Clean, somehow, not bloody, only a little vernix. Just beautiful. I kissed her forehead over and over, moaning softly now as the pain in my body carried on. The concept of time left. This moment was sacred. The Spirit was with us. We were on holy ground.

The world bustled around me, bodies moving, voices talking to one another, over one another, all to fulfill their reason for being in the room. My contractions still surged with anger, my crotch in numbing pain, but in that moment, it was just me and Daisy.

Ryan says a lady appeared telling him to cut the umbilical cord. I have no memory of this. I was lost in the eyes of my daughter. He advocated to wait until it was white and done pulsing, and then clipped it as I smothered baby girl in a hundred little kisses.

Someone came over to give me a shot in my thigh to help birth the placenta. For a moment I winced at the thought of a needle, but then realized that nothing could be more painful than what I just endured. I consented and the organ came out of me, mushy and warm.

Then the midwife informed me that they needed to stitch me up. I had a second-degree tear, and my labia was torn in half (Did you just grimace? Me too). They took Daisy to the other side of the room to get some shots, take her footprints, weigh and measure her. Then the midwife started kneading my empty belly like an angry chef and baking dough, really putting her back into it. I arched my back, groaning again and breathing short quick breaths, Ryan on the bed with me, propped up on his elbow over my head, stroking my face and talking me through the pain. I would have a bruise on my belly for a month after this.

With every painful moan I made, a wail of Daisy’s cry followed from the other side of the room. The nurses and even Cheyenne began to say, “Aw she knows mama is in pain!” Astounding that even outside the womb, mama and baby, in some ways, are still one.

Sliding down to the bottom of the bed, the midwife began the stitches. And it was horribly unpleasant. From the sharp prick of the numbing needle to feeling the stitching needle itself slide in and out of the most tender part of my body, I squeezed my eyes shut, tried to control my breathing, and hoped it was almost over. Then there were moments where my body would convulse from the pain, and the midwife would say, “Oop, more numbing!” and a sharp prick would follow. And I might be mistaken but I’m pretty sure I heard her complain in a low voice to the nurses about me birthing on all fours instead of my back.

“There we go! Good as new!” The midwife finally said. And the nurses gathered around to stare into my crotch. “Wow!” They said smiling. “So cute! It looks great!”

Hundreds of red dots appeared all over my face and neck, broken blood vessels from the pushing. I didn’t know it yet, but I wouldn’t be able to sit up by myself in bed for at least a week. And I wouldn’t be able to stand on my feet for more than a few seconds or a few minutes for another two to three weeks. There was a world of physical healing in postpartum that would last for months that I was uninformed of. And yet how strange, that I wouldn’t hesitate to do it all again for the love of my daughter, that I’m still so nostalgic for this day.

When they handed Daisy back to me, my body was still moving for me. It took off my top and laid Daisy on my chest for skin to skin. In my arms she was so calm. Ryan and I smiled at this new little life, talking to her, stroking her soft skin as her big eyes looked up at us with such peace, like she knew we were mom and dad. All the while worship music continued to fill the air. Ryan always says he loves that part. “It’s like the whole labor and delivery was one big worship set,” he says.

I think back on that moment before the last push. That moment of complete desperation for our Lord. The excruciating physical pain for the love of a child. The agony endured to give life. It almost feels too sacred to speak of. In deep reverence, I fell into prayer.

Jesus, I am unworthy. I prayed, trying to find the words. It’s too holy, Lord. May I even speak of this? How blessed are women. To experience even a fraction of what you endured on the cross. To bear even a small image of Your greatest act of love. Pain and sacrifice for life. I am not worthy, Lord, to understand so intimately even a taste of what you suffered.

It was a gift to receive that knowledge. That He would allow me to have a greater understanding of His love. If I would so willingly walk into a fleeting moment of suffering for the sake of my child whom I so love that she might live, how much more willing was Jesus to go to the cross for me, for you, whom He so loves, that we might live?

I write this now, Daisy girl asleep in a carrier snugged into my chest. Little whistles of her breathing reaching my ears, the sweetest sound. Surrounded by all of daddy’s plants in our quiet little home, in the very nook where I cried and prayed relentlessly for her, a propagation in an old Bertolli sauce jar with the label still on it, the cat asleep on the couch. The iced coffee saved from yesterday, still barely touched, and a Christian podcast paused on the television.

Our ministry has begun. A new stewardship has started. We have received a joy, been entered into a love, unlike anything we have known. I am a mom. She is here. The love and friendship between my husband and I are even greater than they were before. Jesus has only brought us closer. Entering into motherhood has felt like the most natural thing, like something I was always made for in my bones has finally arrived.

Thank you, Jesus.

Katie Donohue Tona

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