thirty-nine weeks: a live birth story

Each of our pregnancies is someone new, but doctors always point back to Christian and the unexplained aspects of his sudden stillbirth when I'm nearing delivery. Honestly, I can't blame them. As delivery nears, my own mind turns. The new doctor said I was the most peaceful pregnant woman, and, yes, there is a peace that comes with the knowledge that we have no control of the outcome, only our walk with God through it.

A little before thirty-nine weeks, after my routine appointment, they hooked me up to watch her heart for awhile. The baseline stayed low at 110 (they like it to be 120-150), and the doctor asked if the ultrasound tech was still in the office. She had gone home for the day, and they asked me to come back in the morning to make sure Felicity's heart rate wasn't anything serious. If I felt any cause for concern before then, I was supposed to drive straight to the hospital.

Jeremiah 29 was running through my head. "For I know the thoughts that I think toward you, saith the Lord, thoughts of peace, and not of evil, to give you an expected end. Then shall ye call upon me, and ye shall go and pray unto me, and I will hearken unto you. And ye shall seek me, and find me, when ye shall search for me with all your heart."

I prayed that God would keep her moving all night long, and He did.

In the morning I left our big girls at Nana's house with extra kisses, feeling the possibility that one thing could lead to another, and I may not see them again before giving birth. 

On the ultrasound table, the tech's bedside manner impressed me again. She's matter of fact and talented. With years of experience under her belt, she said, "I'm going to look. I'm going to take measurements. When I'm finished, I'll turn it around for you and show you, and we'll get some pictures." Managing expectations. My type of lady.

She looked. She measured. Then she was making the same motion, in the same area, again and again. Again and again. A swoop. Around. Low. Again and again.

"I want the doctor to look at this."

It's sentences like that that make me feel that familiar discomfort. Prayers for Felicity's safety rose up... If there was something wrong, I wanted to deliver her in time. In time. Before she dies.

The doctor came in and the tech showed her. It's hard to explain what was on the screen, but 

the back of Felicity's head was resting on her spine.

 

Adults can't bend like she was bending. Her neck, incredibly exposed. Her head tipped all the way back. Back, back, and more back, until it is laying on her spine. The back of her head was laying on her back.

The tech kept showing us. Following the curve of her spine again and again. They exchanged some quick words. No, we hadn't had the genetic testing done. No, there hadn't been red flags at the ultrasound in March. Yes, this would explain her heart rate. No, she can't give birth like this. Yes, an emergency c-section if she's just presenting this way for birth.

I heard it in their tone. *If* she's *just* presenting this way for birth. So, I asked the only logical question, "Is it possible that that isn't the position she's in for birth, but that she's just shaped like that?"

They both nodded immediately. Yes. It's just as possible that that is how she's shaped.

My mind runs things all the way to their end. Shaped like that. Major spine surgeries. Wheelchair. Wider doorways. New handicap van. Physical therapy appointments. Better insurance. Life altering. This could change everything about how our family unit functions.

Something else familiar; The doctor says, "Head to Labor and Delivery." "They'll be expecting you." "You need a better ultrasound." 

"It'll either be emergency c section today, if she's presenting that way for birth, or induction tomorrow, if she's shaped that way."

Phone calls and tears and prayer in the car: familiar. Matt will meet me there: familiar.

It was two hours before the ultrasound tech at the hospital could see us, and in those two hours we prayed. Our church prayed. Our families prayed. Prayed for her safety. Prayed for peace. Prayed those BIG "Help this be nothing" prayers that almost seem too big to ask.

The tech starts looking while the cardiologist questions me about Christian. After a brief scan, the tech says, "What was it that they said they saw?"

I think I laughed. Relief. Release. Praise. A God who sees me and hears me and chose this path for us.

Nothing wrong with her shape. Head down. Ready to be delivered.

Because her heart rate was still low, they recommended we stay and go right into it. An epidural. Pitocin. And then almost twelve hours later, at 2:46 a.m., she entered the world with one push, screaming, immediately turning her face towards me to eat as she reached my skin. Already a professional at being a baby. She was our smallest yet, 7 lb 3 oz and 19 inches long.

She's a gift. Welcome to the world, Felicity Virginia. We've always wanted you.