My hope filled VBAC: She's almost 2

Somewhere in the vicinity of two years ago this week, I stared at my very pregnant belly wondering when the little goober was going to give up the hostage situation in my uterus and wave its white flag. I was three days past my due date, still working full-time and went to bed every night praying God would give my body the ability to birth my child as He intended.

I've told the story of how Josephine had been forced out before she was ready. Devastated doesn't even begin to describe how I felt, and though I tried part of me still can't even put into words the full range of emotions I felt over the course of my healing - both physical and emotional.

And then eight months later I was pregnant again. I was "late" and tested. Negative. Tested again a few days later. Negative. Spent my birthday attempting to have fun hanging out with my family ... could hardly stomach the beer in my hand and though I so very badly wanted a cigarette, the smell nearly made me vomit. On March 8, I had a biopsy done on my thyroid and went home scared to death of the results of that test. To clear my head, I peed on another stick figuring if it was negative this time, I was going to stop worrying. My body was probably just getting back on track after Josie had stopped breastfeeding.

The line glowed like a damn beacon in the dark.

I prayed the thyroid biopsy didn't come back that the nodule was cancerous.

I cried through the smile.

Josie was the only one home with me.

Then the fear. I was struck dumb with fear, the anxiety of another pregnancy ending in surgery gripped me throughout the 41 weeks, 4 days I carried the Goob.

The first question I asked my midwife, a new one I hadn't had the pleasure of "working" with (and bless her heart and soul for the amazing care she gave me), was "Am I a candidate for VBAC?" There we sat - Boy Wonder, me and our infant daughter - and I was desperately seeking the answer that would make or break this whole pregnancy. The answer that would give me hope that my body wasn't broken.

She told me what I already knew - what I'd already researched - it's recommended to wait 18 months between a c-section and attempting a VBAC, that my children were going to be just shy of 17 months apart, that there's a chance for uterine rupture which would result in a necessary section ... that we'd play out this pregnancy as healthy as we could and try.

Hope. There it was. So much hope.

We ate fresh vegetables, we cut out as much sodium and processed food as we could, we went for walks, I tried to keep my stress to a minimum.

I didn't swell. My body became toned and strong as my baby grew. I was wearing clothes that summer my thighs hadn't fit into in three years. I was healthy.

My pregnancy was healthy.

But still, there was that nagging at the back of my brain that said, "What if your body doesn't go into labor? There is no induction for this one. November 17 gets here and it's game over."

As my due date approached - which truly is only an estimation - I looked at Nov. 6, 2011 as the beginning of my countdown. My back-up c-section had been scheduled for about a month when my due date came around and every day past 40 weeks made it that much more important for my body to do its thing, this thing it was designed to do. I had already been drinking red raspberry leaf tea for a few weeks and was hopeful it was helping to tone my already scarred uterus. Hope. I would stand in the kitchen brewing this stuff and pray it was doing whatever it was supposed to be doing because I wouldn't know until it was Baby Time if it had worked.

Nov. 13, 2011: There's a baby in there. Still. Seven days "late."

I got to the almost 41-week mark and saw my midwife for what I hoped my last appointment. I was dilated a little, baby was still up kind of high. I had her strip my membranes (again), made my next appointment - which was the day I had my surgery consult scheduled for - and Josie and I went off to work. A few contractions throughout the day, but nothing significant.

I was losing hope.

I made it to the surgery consult on Nov. 15. And had a good cry later that morning while Josie and I listened again to the baby's heartbeat, as the frustration mounted. My midwife stripped my membranes again, there was a head down low. She was hopeful for me she would see me later that night in a hospital gown in one of the birthing suites. I tried to be hopeful, too. I tried not to let Josie know how sad I was I may have to go through surgery. I couldn't let her know how scared I was.

To be honest, I was so sure my body would go into labor I hadn't thought about the possibility of not being able to hold both my babies at once without having to be careful of staples in my abdomen. I hadn't gotten that far in my worrying; I blocked out the possibility I may not VBAC because it just wasn't an option.

We went home since I had taken the rest of the day off work, grabbed the stroller and started every home method I could think of to get this baby out of me. Brisk three or so mile walk up and down hills, home to bounce on the exercise ball, the more spicy the dinner the better, I resorted to castor oil - only one tablespoon, and it didn't even do what it was intended to do. It did absolutely jack.

Finally Josie was put down for the evening after some good snuggling and I said eff it. Two ounces of my favorite wine and a warm bath to relax me. I just wanted to relax. I needed to relax. I sipped my wine and rubbed my belly praying this monster wouldn't be forced out, too. My body could not be so broken, it just couldn't be. I couldn't let it be.

The emotional exhaustion from the day had taken its toll and when I crawled into bed around 11 p.m. I just wanted to get a good night's sleep, which Josie must not have thought I needed.

At 1:30 a.m. I woke to her cries, stood from my bed and thought, "That's different ..." Then I stood in the doorway of her bedroom as Josie sat on my belly and I swayed back and forth with her, wanting nothing more than for her to get some rest. And it happened again. Then I realized it was happening every seven or so minutes.

And I stood there rocking both my babies, swaying to and fro - hope blossoming again that God was going to give me the natural birth I wanted, that I needed, to heal my heart the rest of the way.

At 3:30 a.m. I laid Josie back in her bed as gently as I could as the pain went from "That's different ..." to "Just breathe through that ..." and seven minutes became five, and the pain went from lasting 10 seconds to 45. I crawled back in my bed where no comfort could be found and I finally nudged Boy Wonder awake.

My parents, I thought, I need to call my mom. Still working full-time as an LPN at the county nursing home, I knew Mom would be awake and getting ready for work when 5 a.m. rolled around. I called. The answering machine picked up and then they were there, answering the phone, that sound of dead sleep asking if everything is OK. Mom timed my contractions through the phone, two hours away as she grabbed her overnight bag and my dad started getting clothes on.

I called the hospital next; my midwife called me back within a few minutes but felt like an eternity. I wasn't leaving my house until I knew I should. I wanted to labor as long as I could before making that drive. I told her how long the contractions were lasting, that we'd timed them and timed the intervals and she gave me the blessed, "Why don't you get dressed and come in so we can see what's going on."

We grabbed the bags, the computer and the Bean. I'm pretty sure Boy hit every bump he could and when I complained in jest he responded with, "Just trying to help."

We arrived around 6:30 a.m. to a quiet maternity ward, we gave the nurses the run down and my name went on the board. I was walking the halls when my OB - the one who had so much faith in me when they tried to get me into labor with Josie - came on the floor to check things out before going to the office. She greeted me with the biggest smile, her heart in her eyes - and hope. So much hope.

My littlest labor coach walked up and down the halls with me, hung out with me, snuggled me. My parents arrived and we kept walking, and the contractions kept getting stronger.

I was dilating on my own and there was a baby coming. I wasn't hooked up to IVs, I wasn't forced to lay in a bed. I got in the tub and let the warm water and jets ease the contractions. They broke my water, but I wasn't going to complain or decline because I just wanted to meet this little person, and my body was already doing what it needed to.

My entire pregnancy I had said I wanted no interventions - no epidural, no water breaking, no IVs - but there came a point while I was in labor that I needed something to take the edge off. The back labor had gotten bad enough I asked my doctor at one point if she could just remove my spine to make this easier.

But labor isn't supposed to be easy. It's work. It's really fucking hard work.

I asked for a little stadol, and was given a portion of a dose. Apparently, I'm a pretty funny "drunk." And when it wore off and the back pain was more intense and I was sticking out around 7 cm, my OB joked and said, "Yeah I'm glad we canceled that section. You're having a baby. No turning back now." And I said, "I want an epidural." Tears in my eyes, I just wanted to rest. I'd pretty much been up for 24 hours straight. My body was tired, my baby was at home sleeping in her crib after hugging me and hanging on for dear life while I sang the ABCs to her through one of the strongest contractions I'd had at that point.

My mom looked at my husband, my husband said, "Are you sure?" There was that question - and yes, I was sure. And when the anesthesiologist came in, I laughed. I laughed because the last time I saw him he was giving me a spinal as we prepped for surgery 17 months before. I laughed because I didn't think I'd see him again ever. And I laughed because he, in that moment, was my savior.

The moment the drugs hit my system, my body relaxed. I slept. An hour. I had one hour of blissful sleep and was woken up for a baby check ... and there she was. Her little head was so close. My natural birth was just a handful of pushes away.

The nurses had me practice, and we turned the epidural down, and when I got it right, when it was clear I knew how to get this Goober out of me, I asked to feel that pain.

Nov. 17, 2011: That's one very well baked baby. <3

But it's true, at least in my case, that you don't remember the pain of birth. I honestly don't remember how much it hurt. But I do remember the tears in my husband's eyes at 4:29 a.m. Nov. 17, 2011, and watching him cautiously cut the cord, and the catch in his voice when he looked at me and said, "It's a girl."

In that moment, my body, though ravaged by back-to-back pregnancies and birth ... my body was healed. God stood in that room and blessed us and reminded us just how strong we are. My body was far from broken.

My kids, they may be crazy, but I cling to them like a life raft. I cling to the person they have helped me become and the women and mothers they one day will be. I tell my birth stories like they're flashbacks on a war long ago forgotten because the memories from those months are so thick and ingrained in me, there is no other way to tell them.

And looking back now on the two years since we met the Goob, since we grew our family, I wouldn't change anything unless it meant adding one more to the mix.